


To Eternity and Beyond

by Katseester



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Canon Compliant, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Slow Burn, no betas we die drowning in continuity errors
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-15
Updated: 2020-09-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:01:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26470789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katseester/pseuds/Katseester
Summary: Guydelot has found another adventure. Sanson is only too happy to go along with him, if it means escaping his office. Besides, the chance at immortality is on the line.Spoilers up until the very end of Stormblood/beginning of Shadowbringers.
Relationships: Sanson Smyth/Guydelot Thildonnet
Comments: 21
Kudos: 57





	To Eternity and Beyond

**Author's Note:**

> I have a music degree. Obviously I needed to put it to use writing bard fic, because there's not a whole lot else I can do with it right now.

Sanson Smyth was having a normal day.

It was normal in that he was sat at his desk, in his office, and he was filling out stacks upon stacks of endless paperwork. It was normal in that sunlight was shining through the small window he was afforded in his small office, and it was normal in that with each passing moment the urge within him to be on the field rather than inside this cramped, stuffy room was growing exponentially. It was normal.

Sanson checked his pocket watch. It was very nearly noon.

And, as any normal day would have it, he was interrupted before his meal break began.

"I have another adventure for us," Guydelot said by way of greeting. He stood leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest, and wearing a grin that typically meant Sanson was in for a rather large headache by the day's end. He would jump at the chance to get outside and stretch his legs, to spend an enjoyable afternoon with his friend underneath the dappled canopy of the Twelveswood, but for the fact that if his growing piles of paperwork were not completed by the end of the day, he would be deep in dragon dung.

"Oh?" he said, sparing Guydelot a brief glance of acknowledgement before once again focusing on the report in front of him. "And what sort of adventure is that?"

Guydelot strode across the room in three swift strides, planting his hands on the desk to either side of Sanson's rather large workload. "The bardly sort," he said conspiratorially, tilting his head to try and meet Sanson's gaze. "Which means you should stop working on that pointless drivel and start paying some sort of attention to me, because this is quite a lot more important than - " he paused to squint down at the letters on Sanson's page, reading upside down, "'Private Oriander's Training Regimen'? Really?"

Sanson heaved a sigh, replacing his quill to the inkwell and leaning back in his chair, away from Guydelot's raised eyebrow and incredulous stare. "We've had quite a lot of new recruits since the revolution and I'm in charge of detailing their training after gauging their abilities or...lack thereof. Honestly, it's been a nightmare."

"Rising up through the ranks not what you'd hoped it'd be, eh?" Guydelot asked, grinning. "Private Oriander not quite living up to expectations?"

"A lot of these people would be better off joining the carpenter's guild, or taking up leatherworking, but..." Sanson trailed off, shrugging. The Twin Adder could not afford to turn away any potential solider, not after the losses they'd suffered during the liberation of Ala Mhigo.

Guydelot nodded sympathetically. "Why do you think I signed up?" he asked. "Certainly not because you asked me, as a favour, to join this bloody organization. Not that I don't _enjoy_ the feeling of having a stick shoved handily up my backside for the majority of my day."

"Why _did_ you join, then," Sanson said testily, "if not because I asked?"

Guydelot pursed his lips, crossing his arms in a defensive gesture. "Call it a whim," he said vaguely, and did not elaborate.

Sanson didn't press the issue. He knew that when Guydelot became like this it was near impossible to pry any information from him. "What's this bardly adventure you've dug up?" he asked instead, to bring the topic back to the reason for Guydelot's visit. "Is it dangerous?"

"Oh, terribly," Guydelot said, posture relaxing into something more familiar as he allowed the excitement of his tale to bleed through him. "You'll recall I was sent out to The Peering Stones to assess the settlement for reconstructive efforts? Well, while staying the night in Castellum Velodyna I met a man who confided in me that he'd heard of a piece of music that _supposedly_ makes the listener immortal."

Sanson, who had been fairly interested in what Guydelot had to say up to this point, scoffed. "Need I remind you what happened last time we went chasing after the fairytale of a fabled piece of music? I nearly got us all killed."

"Right, right," Guydelot readily agreed, but before Sanson could protest indignantly continued on, "the thing is, he clammed up right after. Seemed afraid to tell me more about it. Outright refused, until I'd worked him into being a bit more pliant."

Sanson's back stiffened at that. "Oh?" he said curtly, not at all enjoying the image of Guydelot making _anyone_ pliant beneath his hands. Jealousy was not a trait he was proud to possess, yet he couldn't seem to help it whenever Guydelot was involved. "And then what did he say?" he asked, tone clipped.

Guydelot cocked his head, frowning at Sanson's displeasure. "What's gotten you into such a foul mood, now?"

Sanson didn't answer. Guydelot shrugged at his petulance, leaning back and crossing his arms. "Keep your secrets, then. I had to spend nearly all my coin buying the sod drinks until he was ready to spill. But gods, was he a bore. Wouldn't stop talking about how he would've joined the revolution but for his bad leg, as if I gave two farts. But he did tell me this - "

And here Guydelot leaned back in, as though to share a secret with him. "It was hard to parse between the incoherent babble, but he said that if we looked to the bottom of Loch Seld's sunken city we would find a map to the score. He called it the _Dirge of Eternity_."

Sanson, listening closely despite his skepticism, snorted at this. "And how are we supposed to get to the bottom of Loch Seld? It's fathoms deep and full of salt."

"That's where our other bardly friend comes in," Guydelot said, "and I've already sent him a missive so you don't need to worry your pretty little head over it."

Ah, yes. Sanson had forgotten about the blessing the Warrior had received while out east. And if he was on his way, that meant -

"I guess I'd better work on finishing these up, if we're to leave shortly," he said, gesturing at his unfinished paperwork, and glanced up just in time to see a smile unfurl across Guydelot's face.

"It's going to be worth it, believe me," Guydelot said, striding to the door. "Can you imagine living forever?"

* * *

The Warrior of Light arrived no later than one bell past midday, just as Sanson and Guydelot were finishing their meal together. They had begun this ritual shortly after Guydelot enlisted, and although it wasn't forbidden for him to share his mealtimes with a subordinate, it did garner quite an impressive amount of disapproving sidelong glances.

Sanson appreciated the company Guydelot gave him during this time. As far as he was concerned, the Adders could go and sit atop their lances if they had a problem with it.

(Guydelot was, perhaps, not the best influence in terms of retaining his straightforward and rigid discipline towards his superiors. Call him jaded; ever since that business with Nourval he found it difficult to maintain the same amount of respect as he had before.)

And so, Guydelot was in the middle of regaling Sanson with a story of how one of the members of his squadron had arrived 30 minutes late to their patrol, wearing no pants, and with a general air of having had a run in with one too many cups of wine the previous night, when the Warrior made his presence known.

"Am I hearing you correctly?" he asked from the door, having let himself in without either of them noticing. "He showed up without pants and then attempted to sing his way out of punishment?"

"It was a very moving song," Guydelot said, in apparent defense of his hungover coworker. "We all began crying - though, mind you, it was from laughing so hard."

"How have you been?" Sanson asked, regarding the Warrior warmly. It had been ages since they'd all been together in a room. Sanson sometimes spotted him in Gridania or somewhere out in the Twelveswood, but their busy schedules kept them from engaging in much conversation.

He looked - not _well_ , Sanson would say, but not as bad as he had seen him in the past. He and Guydelot were aware of the troubles the Warrior and the other Scions faced, and Sanson noted with some concern the circles beneath his friend's eyes. He surmised there must not have been any progress in waking the Warrior's comrades since last they spoke.

"I'm doing fine," the Warrior said, and before Sanson or Guydelot could call him out on the lie continued, "So what's this piece of music that's gotten you so excited?"

And so Guydelot launched into his tale for a second time that day.

"The Dirge of Eternity?" the Warrior said once Guydelot had finished. "Are you sure it's not just a funeral piece?"

"It could be," Guydelot conceded. "But we won't know unless we find it. And it _has_ been quite a while since we've all gone on a perilous adventure together, hasn't it? I've missed us."

The Warrior hummed in consideration. "Well, I don't need to be back at The Rising Stones until I'm called, so I suppose we can look into this."

Guydelot whooped excitedly, and Sanson wondered just how long this adventure was going to take them.

* * *

Convincing Vorsaile to allow Sanson out of their sight on another mission was not as difficult as he'd thought it would be. His superior was receptive to Sanson's case, perhaps due to Guydelot looming ominously over his shoulder, hinting that they _at the very least_ owed Sanson some time on the field with all the subtlety and grace of a Hapalit in a teahouse. That he happened to drop the Warrior's name as well as Jehantel's only served to further his case.

Travelling with Guydelot and the Warrior was always an experience Sanson looked forward to, despite his initial reticence. Guydelot was seemingly an endless fountain of entertaining stories, and although the Warrior never spoke much, he always chimed in with a comment or two that set all three of them laughing raucously.

Their journey through the Twelveswood and into Gyr Abania was uneventful, and by evening they had arrived at Castellum Velodyna, whereupon the Warrior set off immediately to catch up with Alpa and J'olhmyn.

"He's so fickle," Guydelot sighed, chin in hand, as he stirred his stew. "But I suppose that just means we have the evening to ourselves."

"He's allowed to have friends that aren't us," Sanson pointed out, and Guydelot scoffed.

"Who else does he need _but_ us?" he demanded, gesturing at Sanson with his spoon. A fleck of stew hit Sanson's cheek. "Oh, sorry."

He reached across the table and swiped his thumb over Sanson's cheek. If it lingered a moment longer than necessary, Sanson steadfastedly and consciously remained none the wiser.

"I'm only joking," Guydelot continued. "I know he has more friends around the world than we could even fathom. Besides, I like spending time with you whenever you manage to pull yourself out of that dank hole you call an office."

"Is that so," Sanson said weakly, focused on the food in front of him and not Guydelot's face, handsome and infuriating as it was.

"Say," Guydelot said, and his tone had shifted from light and airy to something a bit quieter, something meant only for Sanson to hear. Sanson chanced a glance up and was surprised to see the serious expression adorning Guydelot's face. "I've been meaning to ask you about something. Feel free to tell me to sod off, but - "

Just then another patron, drunk by the sounds of it, smashed his tankard onto the floor and began yelling incoherently at his companion, who responded by also smashing his tankard and yelling incoherently back. By the time they were calmed down and escorted from the room (after breaking several more items and overturning their table), Sanson had forgotten about the question Guydelot had meant to ask him.

When he finally remembered, Guydelot was snoring peacefully (and annoyingly) beside him in the dormitory, and Sanson was loathe to wake him, so he put it from his mind and let himself drift off to sleep.

* * *

The rest of their travels through the Gyr Abanian countryside went much the same. Sanson was content to let his mind wander. There was no issue in them passing from the Fringes and into the Lochs, but once they made their way out of Porta Praetoria and Sanson was able to properly take in the new scenery, he stopped.

"Something the matter?" Guydelot called from ahead, having noticed the absence of his friend. The Warrior had begun examining a mineral vein on a nearby rocky outcrop.

"Sorry," Sanson said, jogging to catch up. "I was just caught by surprise. It's beautiful out here."

He hadn't known what he'd expected, when Guydelot had told him their destination was to be the Lochs. He had heard stories of the area, back when it was still under Garlean control, and had read several reports from his men on it now that it was liberated. He had thought - imagined, foolishly, it seemed - that there would be more imposing metal structures dotting the landscape.

"Feeling inspired?" Guydelot asked in a conspiratorial manner, as though the only other person in their presence was not the Warrior of Light, Bard Extraordinaire.

"Maybe," Sanson replied, somewhat absently. He was thinking about the cut of the palace's silhouette against the burnt golden sky. He wondered what words might do the sight justice.

"We should set up camp before it gets too dark to continue," the Warrior suggested, having apparently finished his investigation of the rocks. "If we make an early start tomorrow, we should arrive just after mid-morning."

"Sounds like a plan," Guydelot agreed, and then the three of them got busy setting up their tent a short ways off the road. Sanson didn't have much experience in this matter; the canvas of the tent seemed to be never-ending and there were altogether far too many poles to keep track of, but despite his fumbling attempts at aid that he suspected were more of a hinderance than anything, Guydelot and the Warrior managed to erect the structure within a few minutes.

Never one to run out of surprises, the Warrior pulled a skillet from his chocobo's saddlebag and ordered them to procure some kindling for a fire as he set about preparing a meal.

"I didn't expect to get the five-star treatment while on the road," Sanson admitted.

"He's making carbonara. _Carbonara_. In a bloody campsite, over a bloody campfire. Where did he even keep the eggs?" Guydelot asked, mostly to himself. He had gathered some dried grass and leaves from the sparse underbrush to act as firestarters. He stuffed them into a small pouch at his side.

"No complaining," Sanson grunted, using his foot to break a particularly large branch in two. "Do you want to eat salted meat and crackers?"

"Actually, I think it's brilliant," Guydelot said. "Do you think this is enough?"

Sanson did some math in his head. "A couple more pieces ought to suffice."

When they returned to the campsite, their friend had somehow managed to set up a defacto kitchen and was slicing a clove of garlic with surprising intensity. Sanson and Guydelot built a small fire, lit it in only four tries, and soon the enticing smell of all the ingredients melding together filled the night air.

The carbonara was delicious. Sanson had no idea how the Warrior had done it, but he'd managed to make the dish perfectly overtop a crude campfire.

Once they'd finished eating, cleaning, and packing everything away, they all settled down for the night. The Warrior was checking over his bow, Guydelot was idly strumming a tune on his lyre, and Sanson was writing in his journal.

He did his best to depict the palace's striking figure in the distance. Sanson was never truly happy with the songs he wrote; there always seemed to be something missing from them, and that something was what, he felt, would imbue the song with power. He would keep trying, though. He wasn't one to give up.

After struggling to jot down his thoughts and fashioning a couple of stanzas from them, he tucked his notebook back into his pack with a sigh. Guydelot shot him a look over the fire.

"Something the matter?" he asked, quiet, and Sanson shrugged.

"Writer's block. I guess I'm more tired than I thought." He stifled a yawn behind his hand.

"Mm. It's late; we should tuck in to bed soon, anyway, if we're to get an early start tomorrow."

They did just that.

* * *

The next day dawned early. Sanson awoke before either of his companions. Carefully, so as not to disturb them, he extracted himself first from his bedroll, and then from the tent. The Warrior's chocobo was still asleep outside, tucked in on herself and looking rather comfortable. Stretching, and feeling quite peaceful in the early morning light, Sanson went about rekindling last night's fire as quietly as possible. He had the water boiling and three travel-safe mugs set out when he heard a rustling behind him; a perfunctory glance revealed that Guydelot had emerged from the tent, looking groggy and squint-eyed. His hair was sticking out more than usual, and Sanson turned back to the fire before he could think more on that.

"Coffee or tea?" he asked to the boiling pot of water before him. Guydelot grunted before dropping to the ground beside him.

"Between the two of you, I'm going to get too used to being pampered while on the field. Tea, please," Guydelot said, half-mumbling.

The Warrior rose not long after. Unlike Guydelot, he appeared from the tent in a state of perfect alertness, and gratefully accepted the hot mug Sanson passed to him before seating himself on his other side. There they ate breakfast (the dreaded salted meat and crackers, much to Sanson's resigned distaste), and once finished smothered the fire and packed up camp. They were on the road before the sun had settled itself above the mountains.

The journey to Loch Seld was not overly long. By mid-morning they had arrived at a location the Warrior deemed sufficient, so as to make his exploration of the city under the water more efficient.

Waiting for the Warrior to resurface was dull work. It was difficult not to fidget, even knowing there was naught he and Guydelot could do but sit at the edges of Loch Seld, far enough from the water that the waves couldn't lap at their feet and the crumbly sand had changed to harder, packed-down soil.

"You don't suppose he's run into any trouble down there?" Sanson ventured, after two bells had passed with nary a bubble.

"I doubt it," Guydelot said, but his face had taken on a slightly pinched expression that belied his worry. "He wouldn't let a little bit of salty water stop him. He's probably just found a town of saltwater-dwelling people who need help, or some other weird thing."

Sanson smiled at that. It wouldn't be remiss; their friend always had a habit of helping people no matter how small their problems may be.

"I've heard the city underneath the water is rather large, besides," Sanson agreed. "Perhaps he's just being thorough."

"Does the blessing protect his eyes from the salt, I wonder," Guydelot mused quietly. "It can't be too comfortable, otherwise."

"There was something you wanted to ask me," Sanson recalled, and Guydelot shot him a confused look at the sudden change of track. "Back at Castellum Velodyna. I'd forgotten about it until now."

"Ah," Guydelot said, letting his eyes wander towards the palace. "Yes, the bar fight was quite a distraction, wasn't it?"

"What was it?" Sanson asked.

Some time passed, enough that Sanson was sure Guydelot wouldn't answer, and he was busying himself drawing an awful rendition of the Warrior's pet cat when the man beside him drew in a breath and began to speak.

"Why _did_ you ask me to join the Adders? You know how much I dislike them, and you definitely weren't wanting for rookie soldiers after Ala Mhigo."

The question caught Sanson off guard. "I - " he stuttered, and ground to a halt. "I thought you would be a good leader for the newer bards. An inspiration, even."

"What about you?" Guydelot asked. A note of disappointment was threaded through his voice, though at what, Sanson could not imagine. "You're a much better leader than I'll ever be. Not a day goes by that I'm not inspired by you, either."

"But you're a true bard," Sanson argued, even as the praise warmed him to his toes. Guydelot frowned.

"And you're not?" he said.

"You've seen my skills with a lyre. Abysmal."

Guydelot scoffed. "Only as abysmal as any beginner would be. Do you think I picked up an instrument one day and just started spouting off sonatas?"

Sanson had never thought about that before. "I suppose not," he conceded.

"You can read music. Hells, you can _feel_ music. You spy a landscape and you immediately see the music in it," Guydelot said, gesturing around them. "I've never met anyone so passionate about it before. You're just as much a bard as I am, and anyone who tells you otherwise is an idiot."

"Thank you," Sanson said, moved. "That's - that's very kind of you to say."

"Kind? No. It's the truth," Guydelot said, mouth twitching up into a smirk. "Say, is that the Warrior's cat?"

After another bell or so (and after Guydelot had joined Sanson in drawing several more animals in the dirt), the water before them began to ripple. Sanson sat up straighter as the Warrior's head broke the surface, followed by an arm as he waved at the two of them. He cut a path to the shore, shaking his head to rid his hair of water as he approached.

"What's this?" Guydelot called, pulling himself to his feet. Sanson followed suit. "Come back empty-handed, have you? Was my intel bad?"

The Warrior shook his head, smiling, and pulled a glass bottle from his pocket. He sat down beside them. "It was almost too correct. I found this in the basement of what was probably some rich merchant's home."

Despite his misgivings, Sanson's heart thrummed with excitement. The parchment furled within the bottle looked positively ancient.

"Go on then," Guydelot urged, and the Warrior, needing no more encouragement, broke the seal around the cork.

"Wait," The Warrior said, and then held the bottle out to Sanson. "My hands are covered in salt water. I don't want to damage the parchment."

"Er," Sanson said, gingerly plucking the bottle from his friend's hand.

The cork was lodged very tightly. Sanson briefly considered using his teeth before it finally gave with a satisfying _pop_. Carefully, he extracted the parchment from the bottle and, carefully, he unfurled it. Guydelot had scooted closer and was poring over the parchment hungrily; the Warrior was wringing out his sleeve.

From what Sanson could decipher, it was probably a map, if a very poorly drawn one. It depicted what appeared to be three people and a dragon with a note of music between the lot of them. Underneath the drawings was written a stanza; Sanson had to squint to make out the letters.

_Three bards were they, and dravanians one_

_Much merriment in musick did they make._

_Ne'er wish'd they to be apart_

_And through will alone did they make it so._

_In land long sundered by Thaliak's grace_

_'Twixt times gone past and times ahead_

_There they shall remain for-ever more._

_\- R. Plamondon_

"It looks to me like this is pointing us towards Dravania," Sanson mused, once he had read it over a few times.

"The only problem is, there's a lot of Dravania," Guydelot said. He had read it over Sanson's shoulder, and was frowning in thought. "Where would we even begin?"

The Warrior, suitably dry now, joined their huddle. He read over the stanza and then stared at the crude drawing, brows curving upwards in amusement.

"I have a friend who might know," he said, because of course he did. Sanson had ceased being amazed whenever his friend had an easy solution to problems like this; it was just part of who he was, knowing seemingly everyone across the continent. "She lives in Dravania, at Anyx Trine."

"And would she happen to be of Dravanian descent?" Guydelot asked. The Warrior nodded. "Excellent. I've always wanted to meet a Dravanian and not be eviscerated. It will take ages to travel there on foot, though. Do you think we should use the Aetheryte in Anyx Trine?"

The Warrior nodded his head at the suggestion."It would save us a few days, at the very least," he agreed.

"Do we have enough coin for all of us to go?" Sanson wondered.

Guydelot shrugged. "I've enough for myself and then some. If you're short I can cover you; pay me back later or buy me a few drinks, I don't care which."

Sanson knew for a fact he did have enough. He made a show of checking his coinpurse regardless. "You'll be buying your own drinks," he said, and Guydelot sighed in mock disappointment.

The opportunity for Aetheryte teleportation was a rare occurrence for Sanson, and as such he still wasn't quite used to the sensation of it. Being unraveled to the very core of his essence, whisked through vast streams of aether, feeling tiny as a speck of dust in the vastness of the universe, and then being put back together in much the same way as he was taken apart - no, he didn't think it would ever feel normal. Not for him.

Once all three of them had arrived safely at Anyx Trine - the Warrior of Light astride his chocobo so as not to leave the beast behind - they separated to make inquiries to the dravanians scattered throughout the tower. Sanson, assigned to the ground floor, was dismayed, though not surprised, that no one he asked knew anything about the map. They met up on the second floor once they had exhausted all of the inhabitants tolerant enough to humour them, and judging by his companions' expressions he feared they may be back to square one.

"I had no luck," he admitted, and Guydelot repeated the sentiment.

"I didn't either, but Vidofnir isn't here," the Warrior said. "If anyone will know anything about this business, it'll be her."

"So, what, we twiddle our thumbs and wait for her to return?" Guydelot asked, but the Warrior shook his head.

"I was told she wasn't expected back for a fortnight at the least."

Guydelot cursed under his breath.

"Did anyone mention where she went?" Sanson asked, and didn't like the strained lines that appeared around the Warrior's eyes and mouth at his question.

"Moogles were mentioned," he said.

Sanson peered at the entrance to Mourn balefully. He did not recall the climb to Sohm Al's summit being a pleasant one.

"Upwards?" Guydelot asked, and there was a collective sigh of resignation among them.

* * *

Some few bells later, and quite a lot more sweaty for it, they reached the peak of Sohm Al. Sanson remembered the way the cut of rock gave way to empty air, the crackle and fizz of electricity buzzing down his spine, the empty, angry ache in the pit of his stomach for having to make the journey minus one companion.

He was all the more glad to have Guydelot here to share with him, this time.

"Incredible," Guydelot breathed, a thankfully warm presence at his side, and Sanson could only nod in agreement.

The view was just as breathtaking as it had been during their last journey into these frigid lands. It was evening now, and the setting sun cut rather striking shadows across the broken landscape. Sanson took several moments to take in the scenery before allowing himself to be cajoled along by a grinning Guydelot.

They waited outside Moghome while their friend spoke to the moogles within, which was just as well with Sanson. He had heard the stories of how difficult they were to deal with, and would much rather sit with the sun on his face and the (admittedly freezing) breeze in his hair. Guydelot must have agreed; he had his journal out and was scribbling furiously in it.

"I can't wait to write a song about this place," Guydelot said quite suddenly, glee prominent in his voice. He snapped his journal shut and tucked it away as Sanson shot him a quizzical look.

"You haven't yet?" he asked, and Guydelot shook his head. "I would have thought that you'd have at least a dozen by now."

"Yes, well, the last time we came here I had my head too far up my own arse to appreciate it," Guydelot said somewhat ruefully. "I was too busy moping to think about composing anything, and if I had it would have been some dreadful self-pitying tune."

Sanson made a face. He had been audience to a couple of Guydelot's more brooding pieces one night when the both of them had been a little too deep in their cups, and the ridiculous songs had made him laugh so hard he'd gotten sick on his kitchen floor.

The Warrior emerged from Moghome, face set in a decidedly frustrated manner.

"No luck?" Guydelot asked, and the Warrior shook his head.

"It's not a complete dead end; they got to arguing and Moglin said something about how everyone at Bahhr Lehs would put our behaviour to shame."

"Bahhr Lehs?" Sanson asked, the words foreign on his tongue. He didn't know how the Warrior managed to pick up languages and their correct pronunciation so quickly. Sanson always felt a little foolish for trying.

"Oh, that delightful little settlement with the Moogles and the dragons," Guydelot remarked drily. "I can't wait to meet them."

"There's an elezen there as well, or at least I think he still is," the Warrior pointed out, and Guydelot sighed.

"Wonderful."

* * *

They set up camp for the night rather sluggishly outside of Moghome; the climb had taken more out of Sanson than he'd thought, and he was glad that they had decided not to trudge on through the night. Guydelot and the Warrior seemed to agree, and they all pulled out some preserved rations for a meal rather than go through the trouble of setting up a cookfire.

The next morning dawned bright and chilly, and it was with a renewed sense of vigour that they set off in the direction of Zenith. Sanson was beginning to wonder if they were on a wild dodo chase, a thought he didn't share with his companions.

By noon they had reached the halfway point, and so stopped for a short lunch. Sanson wasn't quite sure what happened next. In one moment he was repacking his bag, humming quietly to himself, and the next he was lying flat on the ground with the wind knocked out of him, the buffet of wings loud in his ears.

He was on his feet again in seconds, lance in hand and taking a defensive stance, and was not entirely surprised to see a large wyvern hissing venomously at them.

"I don't suppose this is one of our friends," Guydelot suggested, and the wyvern lashed out at him with claws and tooth, answering that question. Quick on his feet, he danced out of range before responding with a volley of arrows that seemed to simply bounce off the beast's hide. The Warrior had also begun his assault and Sanson, needing no more encouragement, dove in.

He had fought dravanians before, and he knew they were a foe not to be underestimated. One wrong movement would bring him in contact with the creature's fearsome claws, and then it would be over.

Guydelot and the Warrior worked beautifully in tandem, and it was difficult not to admire their wordless coordination, grateful for the music that washed over him and gave him strength. Heartened by their song, Sanson landed a particularly satisfying blow, and winced as the wyvern let loose an ear-piercing shriek, turning to face the threat at its rear far more quickly than Sanson could have imagined for a creature of that size.

The wyvern's tail caught him in the middle; Sanson felt the air being sucked from his lungs as he was thrown back, the rocky terrain making for a painful landing. Coughing, trying to regain his breath, he rolled over and dry-heaved, and that was when he saw it.

Guydelot, yelling obscenities at the wyvern, had strayed too close; in one swift movement it swept its tail forcefully into him as it had to Sanson, and Guydelot was tossed through the air as though he were naught but a doll stuffed with straw. He landed heavily, and the wyvern must have hit him far harder than it had Sanson; in the blink of an eye Guydelot slid past Sanson and tumbled over the edge.

Without thinking, Sanson launched himself forward, fumbling against the stones beneath him, arms outstretched -

He caught Guydelot's fingers in his hands, nails scrabbling against the other man's wrist in a desperate grab.

Half-hung over the abyss himself, Sanson dug his toes into the ground as he began to slide, ilm-by-treacherous-ilm, further over the edge.

"Don't let go," Guydelot yelled up at him, and then he laughed, voice bubbling over with fear.

"I know that!" Sanson yelled back down to him, and then very nearly _did_ let go as the wyvern behind them shrieked in pain. The Warrior must have gotten a good hit in, then.

"I suppose this isn't a very good time, but just in case I do fall and never see you again, I want you to know - "

"Gods, Guydelot, can you shut up and help me pull you back up?!" Sanson snarled. "Grab the edge or something - "

Just then, he felt the shift of Guydelot's hand beneath his, and the sudden wrinkle of fabric beneath his skin.

"Quick, grab onto me," Sanson yelled, but it was too late.

Guydelot's hand slipped out of his glove, and he fell. In one moment he was there, dangling over nothingness, wide eyes trained on Sanson, and in the next moment, he simply wasn't.

" _No_!" Sanson screamed, reaching uselessly after him.

"What's wrong?" the Warrior called, alarmed, and this spurred Sanson into pulling himself back from the edge, whipping around to face him. The wyvern lay dead, and the Warrior stopped in his tracks at whatever he saw on Sanson's face, horror dawning upon his own before Sanson said anything.

"He fell," Sanson said, feeling hollow. "We're malms up and he - he _fell_..."

"Sanson," the Warrior said carefully, but Sanson shook his head.

"It's my fault. I had him, _I had him_ , but his hand slipped out of his godsdamned glove, and - "

He could not finish.

Wasting no time, the Warrior pulled a whistle from his bag, trilling loudly into the silent sky. Moments later his chocobo was at his side, called from its hiding place. He pulled himself onto the bird's back, and then reached out a hand for Sanson to take.

"What are you doing?" he asked, but took his hand and allowed himself to be pulled up behind him.

"We're going to find him." The Warrior's tone was resolute, and Sanson could not help but feel heartened by his confidence, as much of an act it may be.

He worried briefly that the chocobo might not be able to carry the weight of the two of them in flight, but such thoughts were quickly thrown from his mind as the Warrior launched them over the edge of the landmass, descending into the yawning sky below. It was miserably cold at their altitude, and without the cover of the land's geography the wind bit harshly at Sanson's exposed skin, nearly buffeting them into the side of the island more than once. He hardly felt it.

After what seemed like an age they cleared the rock and earth of the floating island and the Warrior steered them carefully beneath the hulking stone mass of the land above them, scanning the underside for any signs that Guydelot had somehow survived. Several wyvern nests hung from the island, and a flash of colour caught Sanson's eye, causing his heart to leap into his throat.

"There, tied to that nest," he shouted, words whipped from his lips by the wind. "His scarf!"

The Warrior cut a path for the nest, and as they approached Sanson's elation curdled in his chest. A dead wyvern, no larger than the chocobo they were riding, was hanging from the entrance, an arrow lodged through its skull. Beneath it Sanson spied the sad remains of what must have been the wyvern's eggs; the seemingly unbaited attack made more sense, but Sanson had no time or inclination to think about it in the wake of what had happened.

The entrance to the nest was large enough for the Warrior to land his chocobo in, thankfully, despite the smaller size of its hopefully singular inhabitant, and Sanson nearly fell from the bird's back in his haste to dismount.

It was difficult to see without the sun to illuminate the inside, and so Sanson began to feel around the edge of the nest as the Warrior mirrored his actions on the opposite side. After a short time of fumbling around in the dark, his fingers knocked into something rectangular and smooth, and his stomach plummeted.

Upon picking it up his suspicions were confirmed; it was Guydelot's journal, and yet the man was nowhere to be found. He bit back a sob; losing control and breaking down would do naught but cost them precious time.

Alerted by his distress, the Warrior took the journal from him, turning it in his hands to examine it.

"This is his - his journal," Sanson explained, words sticking in the back of his throat, as though the Warrior didn't already know what it was,but the silence was threatening to suffocate him. "It's where he writes his music, his thoughts..."

The Warrior brought the journal to the opening of the nest and flipped it open to the last page upon which Guydelot had written. He scanned the words quickly, expression turning grim, before passing the journal to Sanson.

_This may be the last thing I ever write, and it may go unfound for decades, centuries, millennia. Or until my intrepid friends discover my remains, at the very least. Who knows how long that may take._

The written words had a calming effect on Sanson; the familiar curve of Guydelot's handwriting and his melodramatic account allowed him to breathe and collect himself for the first time since the other man had slipped from his grasp.

_It's a stupid way to go. Wasting away in some common beast's nest while hoping desperately for rescue. I should be able to get myself out of this sticky situation, and yet I can't see the damn solution._

_If I somehow survive this, I'm throwing my remaining glove into the fire._

_I only wish I'd told Sanson_

Here ink blotted the page in a large, dark bloom across the paper.

"Told me what?" Sanson murmured to himself.

The Warrior shook his head. "Things must have been dire for him to be so sure of his demise."

"I'm sure it can't have been half as bad as he - "

He paused. His fingers had found something in the dark, something cold and slick. He recoiled, pulling his arm away from the sudden, unpleasant sensation, and noticed the colour coating his hand -

"No," he gasped, drawing the Warrior's attention to himself, and the blood on his fingers.

"Is that blood?" the Warrior asked, taking Sanson's hand to inspect it, though surely he must have known the answer. "We can't be sure it's his."

To Sanson, the puzzle pieces of what exactly had happened here were beginning to slot together quite dreadfully. Dangling over the lip of the entrance to the nest sat the lifeless corpse of the wyvern, uninjured save for the arrow buried deep in the front of its skull.

Guydelot wasn't here, but his belongings were, which meant -

"He must have fallen again, somehow," Sanson deduced, voice flat, peering out at the dangling ropes and into the sea of clouds below them. Panic rose in his chest like a wave. "Gods, but how far down is the next landmass? I don't think - "

A hand on his shoulder steadied his shaking breath. "We'll find him," the Warrior said, ever calm in the face of despair.

Once again they descended through the air astride the Warrior's chocobo. Every yalm caused the pit in Sanson's stomach to sink deeper until the mist gave way to pointed treetops. He breathed a sigh of relief; the landmass was not so far that a fall would be fatal.

The land below them was thick with the snarl of bramble, forested so densely it was difficult to find a place to set down. They eventually passed over a small clearing of sorts that the Warrior was able to manoeuvre his chocobo into, and once they were dismounted Sanson voiced his primary concern.

"If he's landed here, how are we to find him?" he asked, stubbornly tamping down on the panic that was once again threatening to choke him. Scarce had the words left his lips before a streak of green erupted from the treeline, nearly skewering Sanson. Shouting an expletive, Sanson followed the trail of smoke and glittering sparkles to find an arrow sunk deep into one of the trees lining the clearing. Affixed to the shaft was a Gridanian sparkler, still emitting its obnoxious smoke.

"Look," the Warrior shouted, pointing skyward. Several more trails of green smoke had appeared in the sky south of their position.

"It's him, it has to be," Sanson said, already striding in the direction the arrow had flown from. Relief swelled within him even as he tried to reason with himself that it could be one of a thousand things besides his friend. "I'll find him and bring him back and then we'll - we'll see how bad it is and patch him up." The obvious question as to _how_ was left unsaid. Sanson didn't want to think about it, not yet.

"I'll set up camp," the Warrior said. He was already searching through his chocobo's saddlebags for their bedrolls. Sanson nodded and began the unpleasant task of fighting through the tangled bush. Left untouched for what Sanson supposed was decades, at least, it was nearly impossible to make any sort of efficient headway. It wasn't long before Sanson was drenched in sweat, and yet it felt as though he had barely moved forward a fulm.

At some point he was forced onto his stomach, crawling beneath the snarled greenery, and it was then that he spotted the length of Guydelot's boot in the distance.

"Guydelot!" Sanson cried, pushing further into the underbrush, heedless of the lashes against his exposed skin as the branches whipped back against him. Anything to get him closer to his friend, anything to _see_ him again -

Guydelot was a wretched sight to behold. Propped up haphazardly against the thick trunk of a dead pine, he'd taken his overcoat off to wrap around his torso. The light fabric was stained through, dark with blood. His face - gods, his face was ashen in colour, scored with cuts and scratches, and when he opened his eyes at Sanson's approach they were dim and hazy. His bow lay at his side, several unused sparklers spilling from the mouth of his bag.

"Am I dreaming?" Guydelot asked, cracked lips parting into a smile. Even in such a sorry state, he wasn't short of his quips, and that thought had Sanson returning his smile.

"No, I'm here, I'm going to help you - can you be moved? Our friend is a little ways back, there's a clearing we can use to tend to your wounds."

Guydelot's tongue darted out to lick at his lips, eyebrows knitting together in a frown. "I think...I've broken a rib or two, but as...long as you're...careful."

Pulling Guydelot back through the path he'd made proved to be an arduous and strenuous task; Sanson was frightened of hurting his friend further, and Guydelot wasn't much help in moving himself in his weakened state. Eventually he lost consciousness - a mercy for him, but it slowed Sanson down further, not knowing if his movements were causing further harm to Guydelot.

Once he'd dragged them both through the worst and most dense of it, Sanson was able to carry Guydelot the rest of the way. It was easier, and faster, but with every step he feared it would be too late, that he had been too slow, too caught up in his emotions and that it had cost Guydelot his life.

He eventually broke through the treeline and into the small clearing where the Warrior had set up camp. He was already on his feet by the time Sanson managed to extract himself and Guydelot from the bush, rummaging through his chocobo's saddlebag.

"Is he - "

"Alive," Sanson answered, before the Warrior could finish that sentence. He laid Guydelot carefully on the bedroll, falling back on his heels from the effort of dragging his friend a quarter of a malm through thick bush. "But it doesn't look good; he's lost a lot of blood and he has some broken bones. I don't know - I don't know if - " He pulled in a shaking breath.

"It'll be fine," the Warrior assured him, finally pulling forth what it was he had been looking for. The astrometer hummed to life, rising of its own volition from the Warrior's hands. A stack of cards whirled around it lazily; the Warrior frowned, concentrating, before plucking one from the dancing queue. He examined the card and then sighed, relieved, before turning his gaze to Sanson.

"Undo his overcoat. I can close his wounds, but we have to be quick."

Sanson was too stunned to argue. He got to work quickly, pulling a knife from its holster around his leg and cutting away the soaked garment from Guydelot's middle. The stench of blood was even worse now that his wound was revealed: a set of three deep gashes across his ribcage and down his side, bruises mottling his skin over the entirety of his torso. It was a miracle his guts weren't strewn over the ground now.

"Gods," Sanson breathed, once again deeply thankful Guydelot had lost consciousness. This would not have been a pleasant ordeal to sit through awake.

The Warrior placed a hand gingerly to Guydelot's stomach, mindful of the torn flesh scant ilms to the side. Grimacing, he murmured, "There's a lot of internal damage. I can - heal the ribs and close the wounds but I don't - Sanson, I'm sorry. I don't know enough to fix this."

Sanson closed his eyes, pulling his lower lip between his teeth. They were malms from the nearest settlement. Guydelot would never survive the journey.

"Is there truly nothing we can do?" he asked, brushing Guydelot's sweat-soaked hair from his forehead, feeling worse than useless. Gods, what he wouldn't give to turn back time so that none of this ever happened. Dirge of Eternity be damned; it wasn't worth this.

"I think," the Warrior said slowly, tapping at his cheek. "I think there's a way we can save him. Moghome is nearby, and I've seen what they can do with their magic. I'd be back within a day."

"The Moogles?" Sanson asked, incredulous. "What can _Moogles_ do for him?"

"If anyone can help him, it's them," the Warrior said, his confidence shaking Sanson to the core. "Besides, they owe me a favour."

* * *

The Warrior mended Guydelot's broken ribs and helped to wrap a compress around his torso to stem the bleeding at least a little bit.

"I'll be back before daybreak," he promised, and then he and his chocobo blinked out of Sanson's view.

There was naught to do but wait as anxiety clawed its way through his stomach. At one point he noticed a flush high on Guydelot's ashen cheeks; telltale signs of a fever. From then on it was a fight to keep his temperature down without a source of water for a cold compress. Sanson compromised by pouring some of his drinking water onto a cloth; it was better than nothing.

Guydelot remained deathly still as the hour became late, and then early, and Sanson found himself checking for breath more than once.

He knew there was naught he could do but wait and make sure Guydelot survived until the Warrior's return but - gods, he felt inadequate. The Warrior had seemed so sure that the Moogles could help, but what if he was wrong? What if they came back and whatever tricks the Moogles had didn't work? What if they came back and it was too late? What if, what if, what if...

Before his thoughts could spiral, however, he heard the buffeting of wings, and then the Warrior was dismounting his chocobo with a moogle in tow.

"This is Mogdern," the Warrior said impatiently. "Mogdern, Sanson."

Mogdern hovered over Guydelot as they undressed his wounds, making a displeased sound at the sight of them.

"He looks like he got into a fight with a dragon, kupo," Mogdern said, humming.

"He _did_ , I already told you this," the Warrior bit out. Sanson had never seen his nerves so frayed. " _Please_ just. Heal him."

Mogdern hummed again. "And the payment?"

"There is no payment," the Warrior ground out, making a violent gesture with his hands. "I'm calling in a favour from when I stopped your home from going up in flames. Now. _Please_. Heal him."

"Can't blame a moogle for trying, popo! I'll fix him right up, kupo!" Mogdern sung, and then something strange happened. The air around him began to shimmer, aether braiding together into tendrils that extended down and into Guydelot's open wounds. Mogdern hummed as he worked, spinning through the air in a circle over Guydelot's prone form, until slowly, slowly, the wounds over his chest and side began to knit together seamlessly.

"All done, kupo!" Mogdern chirped, floating dreamily towards the Warrior's chocobo. "Once he wakes up he'll be right as rain! But it's not my fault if he starts talking in rhymes, kupo."

"You're sure that everything is - fixed?" Sanson asked hesitantly. Mogdern twisted around, fixing him with a glare.

"What do you take me for, a hack? A phony? A - "

"What he means is _thank you_ ," the Warrior said over the moogle's continued uttered obscenities. "Shall I show you home now?"

"Oh, that won't be necessary, po," Mogdern said, back to his dreamy self. "I know the way. If you're ever again in need of me, you know where to find me, kupopo!" He drifted up into the treeline, and then was gone.

Guydelot woke within a bell of Mogdern's departure. His colour had returned somewhat, now teetering between "deathly pale" and "sickly pale," and he re-entered the waking world as he did every day. That is to say, dramatically.

"I feel as though I've been in a fight with a bear," he groaned.

"It was a dragon, but I suppose all claws feel the same when they're tearing your stomach apart," Sanson said, and immediately regretted it as Guydelot's hand flew to his abdomen.

"That's right," Guydelot murmured. "Last thing I remember was you popping up through the bush like some great yellow slug. I thought I was hallucinating. I thought I was dead."

"I said I was going to help you, didn't I?" Sanson said, dutifully ignoring the Warrior snickering over Guydelot's unflattering description of him.

"You did, didn't you," Guydelot breathed, awed. "See, I told you that you're amazing. Do you believe me now?"

Sanson looked away, face awash with colour. "Don't thank me; if it weren't for the Warrior's healing spells, I don't think you'd be with us right now. Not to mention the moogles."

Guydelot turned a bleary eye to their friend, scandalized. "You know healing magicks? Sanson, he's cheating on us."

The Warrior stifled a snort into his hand.

"I can assure you he's not. He's free to do whatever he so pleases."

"Warrior of Light, can't even stay monogamous," Guydelot mumbled reproachfully.

"I hope he stays like this for the journey home," the Warrior said, voice trembling with glee. "Gods know we need some entertainment after all that."

Sanson sighed as Guydelot let out an undignified squawk.

" _Home_?! But what about the Dirge of Eternity? Immortality!" He reached over to Sanson and caught his arm in a surprisingly strong grip. "Tell him we're not going home yet."

Sanson gently pried Guydelot's fingers from his arm. "We can try again some other time," he tried, but Guydelot's expression stubbornly did not clear.

"But we're _so close_ ," he complained.

"And you were _so close_ to greeting Hydaelyn on the other side," Sanson countered, his frayed nerves causing him to snap. Guydelot, shamed, had no response to that save to let go of Sanson's arm. Sanson immediately felt terrible. "I'm sorry. _Gods_ , Guydelot, I don't mean to be an ass. I suppose I'm just tired and I'm still a little scared. Can we talk about this tomorrow, once we've both rested?"

"Of course, darling," Guydelot said. "I'll talk with you about anything."

Ears burning, Sanson heard the Warrior, turned away from them now to allow them at least some modicum of privacy, mutter, "Darling?" to himself.

* * *

They arrived at Moghome as dusk was sweeping over the horizon, casting the land with dark shadows as the sun sunk beneath the clouds below them.

It took a quarter of a bell in arguing and a deal that in the morning the Warrior would go find them some kupo nuts, but the moogles agreed to let them stay for the night.

"We could have just camped somewhere and saved ourselves the headache," Sanson said.

"Mm, yes, but then we wouldn't be sleeping on cloud mallow," Guydelot replied. "This stuff is like a dream, I swear."

Sanson was about to reply that comfortable or not, one could only get so much rest when a chorus of moogles was practicing their rendition of _O Holy See_ quite horribly not 20 yalms from them, but Guydelot's expression gave him pause.

"It seems I've been a terrible fool." Guydelot said it softly, and Sanson knew by the pitch of his voice the words were for him, and him alone.

"I suppose that makes me one as well," Sanson said, "though I'm not sure I'd use the word 'terrible' for myself. Dreadful, maybe, or hopeless."

Guydelot hummed in thought. "Not the words I'd use to describe you, my dear. You may be stiff as a board but you're anything but dreadful or hopeless."

"And you're anything but terrible. A fool, yes, but terrible? Nothing quite as dire."

"Look at us," Guydelot murmured, "a pair of fools, neither terrible nor dreadful nor hopeless, discussing our own foolery."

"What else would a pair of fools do?" Sanson asked.

"Get themselves killed while saving the world?" Guydelot mused. At Sanson's blanched expression he backpedaled immediately. "Unless they'd much rather prefer to lie in bed instead of risking their hides. I do say, this cloud mallow is malms more comfortable than anything the Twin Adders has to offer."

"I might remind you that you signed up of your own volition," Sanson said, and had to stifle a yawn behind his hand.

"If you 'remind' me one more time that I joined your thrice-damned organization, which I did for the sole purpose of keeping a closer eye on you after they wrote you off like some cheap table wine, I think I may quit and take up residence on the top of some obscure mountain," Guydelot threatened. "I've heard the Dravanian Hinterlands are quite nice this time of year."

Sanson laughed quietly, mindful of the Warrior sleeping behind him. "But if you quit, who will be left to keep an eye on me? Not you, for certain. I may end up in another hostage situation where the Adder decides I'm not worth the coin and I'll end up at the bottom of Witchdrop. But yes, being a hermit in the dragon-infested mountains sounds quite lovely."

"I think the dragons are all very lovely," said a meandering Moogle as he floated lazily by. "Sometimes they toast my kupo nuts for me."

"Nobody asked you," Guydelot said, rather waspishly. Then, turning his attention back to Sanson, "You know I'd come and rescue your silly behind the second you landed in another sticky situation. Would it be pirates this time? I've always wanted to fight pirates in the name of love and friendship."

"Would ghost pirates suffice?" Sanson wondered, recalling the Warrior's recounting of his journey to Othard.

"I suppose," Guydelot said. "Planning on taking a trip to the Far East?"

"Not any time soon. I quite like this continent, thanks. I've been wondering," Sanson ventured, daring to voice something that had been niggling at the back of his mind all day, "I know you got up into that wyvern's nest, but...how exactly did you do it? Falling a thousand fulms doesn't leave much time for devising strategy."

Guydelot hummed in recollection. "Lucky for me, I'm quick with a bow. I managed to shoot into that nest and, by some divine intervention of some sort, the arrow stuck, and the nest didn't become _un_ stuck. I climbed up, tied my scarf to the outside, and just sat there for a while. I think you've managed to figure out what happened next."

"You fought a dragon, lost, and somehow fell again?" Sanson guessed. Guydelot pursed his lips in vexation.

"I didn't _lose_ . I killed the damn thing," he argued. "It just so happens that when a dragon is dying it tends to writhe around a lot. Got me with its tail - _again_ \- and sent me tumbling."

"Was this before or after it nearly cut you in two?" Sanson asked, delighting in the sound of Guydelot's indignant spluttering.

"You know what, I've changed my mind. I'm never rescuing you again, since I'm obviously the one in need of rescuing. You are now the rescuer, I the rescuee, and we can both have a house on top of some blasted mountain and never go on another adventure again so neither of us will need rescuing. Happy?"

"That doesn't make any sense," Sanson pointed out. A thought struck him. "Would it be one house or two?"

"It doesn't matter," Guydelot groaned, exasperated. "Are you enjoying this? A man nearly dies and this is what he gets for recompense: cheek."

"I am enjoying this," Sanson laughed as Guydelot pouted. "You, that is. Being here, alive, not torn to shreds."

Guydelot's pout dissolved into something softer. "I'm sorry to have worried you so," he murmured. "I'll do my best to avoid repeating it in the future."

Before the warmth in his chest could compel him to do something foolish, Sanson said, "So you fell. What happened next?"

"I believe I thought to myself, _oh shite, this isn't good_ ," Guydelot said, and Sanson snorted. Lips quirking into a grin, Guydelot continued. "I did a bit more sitting around, except this time while bleeding profusely and in quite a bit of pain. But then, lo and behold, I happened to notice a purple chocobo pass by overhead. I didn't know whether the two of you had extrapolated my whereabouts, so I frantically searched my bag for anything that would alert you to my position. Hence the sparklers. And then, well, you found me, and I don't recall much else besides thinking that at least I'd die with a friend nearby."

"Guydelot," Sanson said, emotion causing a tremor in his voice.

"Don't get weepy on me, please," Guydelot said. "In this state I'm likely to start crying alongside you, and I'd rather stick a sparkler up each nostril and light them ablaze than do that."

"Why did you have so many sparklers in your bag to begin with?" Sanson asked, instead of getting weepy as Guydelot requested.

Guydelot shrugged. "You're full of questions today," he answered, and then sighed at Sanson's discontent expression. "Fine. You gave them to me at this year's Moonfire Faire. I thought it a waste to get rid of them, so I didn't. I'd completely forgotten they were there until I began the previously mentioned frantic rummaging."

Something warm swelled almost painfully in Sanson's chest. He remembered visiting the Faire with Guydelot, buying far too many sparklers, and foisting about half of them onto his companion. He'd assumed Guydelot had disposed of them at his earliest convenience.

"Oh," he said, a little breathless, and Guydelot rolled his eyes.

"I can't wait until this moogle magic wears off," he complained. "It makes being honest and vulnerable with you far too easy."

"I like it when you're honest and vulnerable with me," Sanson said truthfully. Guydelot's cheeks and the tips of his ears turned a magnificent shade of pink.

"I don't," he said, frowning. "It makes me feel funny."

"I think that's called friendship," Sanson explained, and Guydelot threw a fistful of mallow at him.

"I'll make you pay for damages," Mogdern threatened serenely from somewhere to their left.

Sanson shuddered. "I know we should sleep, but I don't think I can relax with all of these moogles just...floating around," he complained. "Not to mention the choir." Said choir had moved on to rehearsing an arrangement of _We Wish You a Merry Starlight_ that by all rights should be criminally prosecuted.

"Just close your eyes and it's like they're not even there," Guydelot mumbled sleepily. "Gods, I wish they weren't there..."

A soft snore began to issue from the man beside him. Sanson shifted onto his side and allowed himself to just look. Guydelot's colour had nearly returned to normal; none of the ashy greyness that had so terrified Sanson remained in his cheeks.

If it weren't for the moogles and for the Warrior at his back, Sanson would reach out and - what, exactly? Would he touch Guydelot, would he stroke his fringe back from his forehead, would he run his fingers against the lines between his eyebrows until they smoothed over? Would he press a kiss to Guydelot's lips, soft and chaste and intimate, as he'd thought of doing so many times before?

Would that he had the courage to do any of these things.

Instead, he remained watching his friend until sleep overtook him, cursing his cowardice.

* * *

In the morning Sanson woke up to several moogles laying haphazardly on top of him, having apparently decided that he was a more fitting bed than the arguably more comfortable cloud mallow strewn about Moghome.

"What in Thal's beard," Sanson groaned to no one in particular. Beside him, he heard Guydelot snicker. "Were you ever going to clear them off of me or were you just going to sit there and laugh?"

"It would almost be cute, if I didn't want to strangle the furry little buggers every time I saw them," Guydelot noted, but he did prod one of the moogles awake, wiggling his fingers at her in a wave when she mumbled something rude. "It's a shame. I was going to use you as a pillow, but they beat me to it."

"Why does everyone want to lie on top of me?" Sanson demanded, rolling two more moogles off of his thighs. "And where's the Warrior? He could help too, you know."

"Off procuring kupo nuts, as far as I know. Since we're stuck here until he returns, what say you we take advantage of this respite? I know _I_ haven't been able to sleep past six bells in ages," Guydelot said, shooting a pointed look at Sanson that he dutifully ignored.

"You may continue to laze about if you wish," he replied, pushing himself to his feet. "I'm going to go do something."

"Like what?" Guydelot asked to his retreating back, sounding reproachful. "Sing carols with the moogles?"

"Maybe," Sanson called over his shoulder. He began climbing the slope that lead to the surface. "Why don't you come find out?"

A muffled _whump_ was all the answer he got, and when he turned back as curiousity got the better of him, he saw the corner of Guydelot's shoulder poking stubbornly out of a mound of cloud mallow. Stifling a laugh, he continued his ascent until a crisp breeze ruffled through his fringe and the packed dirt path gradually gave way to soft grass.

It was awfully cold outside, but the sunshine felt nice and so did the breeze, even if it did threaten frostbite to his nose. Sanson picked a spot behind one of the rocks strewn about so that none of his extremities would be in danger from the elements, laid down, and closed his eyes.

They should return home, he thought. The lead had been a dud, it had put their lives in danger, and Sanson had nearly lost one of the only people he couldn't bear to because of it.

"Oh, I see," Guydelot said from somewhere above him, making him jump. His eyes snapped open to see Guydelot making a wry expression. "Your plan was to continue to laze about in the sunlight instead of in that dreary cavern. Why didn't you say so?"

"It's terribly cold out here," Sanson answered. "I wasn't sure you'd want to laze about while shivering your smallclothes off."

"And you do?"

Sanson hummed thoughtfully. "No, but it's better than being in that dreary cavern." He closed his eyes again. "Besides, sometimes the moogles decide to come sit on me. It's a little warmer that way."

Guydelot made a noise of disgust, and then Sanson felt a warm presence at his side as the other man lowered himself to the ground beside him. "Best protect you from their skullduggery, then," he joked, "seeing as how I haven't yet had my turn."

A weight pressed itself insistently into his stomach, and when Sanson dared to peek down through his lashes, he was not surprised to see Guydelot resting his head on him.

"Am I your pillow now?" he asked.

"Yes."

"How are you supposed to protect me against the moogles if you're asleep?"

"Hush, pillows don't talk."

Sanson sighed but obliged him, and it wasn't long before Guydelot's breath evened out into sleep, despite the cold. And perhaps it was the freezing temperature numbing his hands, or perhaps it was the fact they were alone (save for the lone moogle debating between kupo nuts some thirty fulms away), or perhaps it was the way Guydelot's fingers were twitching as they lay entwined over his stomach. Perhaps Sanson had finally found the courage that he had been so lacking in the night before.

He brought his hand to Guydelot's head and, with a gentle, tentative touch, allowed himself to run his fingers through the other man's hair. It was softer than it had any right to be, as Sanson was sure it must be as dirty as his was by now. He distinctly recalled brushing Guydelot's sweat-soaked hair away from his forehead while the other man lay unconscious. He wondered idly, as he continued to stroke through Guydelot's hair, if he had stolen away at any point during the night for a wash. This lead to him wondering if elezen produced less sweat and grease from their scalps than hyur did, making a note to do some research upon their return to Gridania, and mentally shuffling through the library's catalogue for a title that may contain the information he required.

He was very much lost in thought when the Warrior of Light, trailed by several clingy moogles, trudged his way up the slope and called, rather loudly, for the two of them to get up as it was high time they left.

Guydelot had gone very still beneath Sanson's fingers, and feeling mortification and regret in equal measure, Sanson withdrew his hand. Guydelot still did not move from his position.

"What were you thinking about?" Guydelot asked softly, peering up at him. His tone and expression held a tenderness Sanson was not accustomed to, and despite the panicked urge to recoil as far as he could from it, he could not. Guydelot was, as always, captivating, and Sanson, as always, captivated.

"Your scalp," he answered truthfully after what seemed an age, and Guydelot's earnest expression dissolved into bewildered confusion. Sanson found he could breathe again.

The Warrior called once more to them, and it was with a sense of reluctance that they picked themselves up to their feet and descended back into the cavern below. Having a conversation that boiled down to "so, what next?" seemed inappropriate to conduct in front of the Moogles, so they gathered near the Aetheryte instead.

"We could try for Bahhr Lehs again," the Warrior said, "Vidofnir should probably still be there."

He didn't mention the unasked question that was on all their minds: was this really worth it?

Sanson was of the opinion that no, it wasn't, not if it left his friend half-dead in the bush with his guts strewn about him. But Guydelot had been so eager for this, practically buzzing with excitement since they had left Gridania.

He was very much surprised by what Guydelot said next.

"This is going to be embarrassing to say," he started, worrying at his cuff fretfully and not meeting their eyes, "but now that I'm no longer under the influence of sinister moogle magicks, I'm fine with returning home, if that's what you'd like. This has become...not what I expected it to be, I'll admit. I'd like to find the dirge, but not if it costs any of us our lives."

"Are you sure?" Sanson asked, and Guydelot finally looked at him, brows drawn down into a confused frown. He floundered for what to say next. "It's only, I know how much this means to you, finding it."

Guydelot didn't answer immediately.

"To be honest, I'm not sure whether we're even on the right track here. It might do us some good to put a pause on this whole Dirge of Eternity business until we've had some time to think it over and come up with a better plan. We could ask the dravanians down at Anyx Trine to, oh, I don't know, learn how to use a linkpearl and then call us when your friend returns, and maybe by then we won't be floundering about so much."

No one pointed out how they didn't have that much time to wait around to resume a search built on roughly two sticks and a spool of twine, and even Guydelot looked adequately put off by his suggestion.

"We'll have plenty of time to think while we climb down the mountain," Sanson said, sighing. "I'm sure one of us will come up with something by the time we reach the bottom."

"Wait a moment," the Warrior said, squinting up at the sky. "I think someone's on their way here."

He was right. Following the Warrior of Light's gaze, Sanson spotted a great dragon some ways away circling in the sky lazily before straightening out on a course towards them. Moments later the dragon landed heavily before them, and Sanson knew immediately in the way she regarded the Warrior of Light that this was Vidofnir.

 _I thought I spied you, little one,_ the dravanian said, and Sanson reeled back by the sensation of her voice resonating inside his head.

"Vidofnir," The Warrior said, tone coloured by surprise. "We didn't expect you to be back so soon."

Vidofnir snorted in amusement. _I could say much the same. Had I known to expect guests I may have concluded my business sooner; the climb from Anyx Trine is not an easy one._

The Warrior waved this away. "The climb was no trouble. My friends are just as capable of it as I am," he said, gesturing to Sanson and Guydelot. Sanson did not miss the hint of pride in his voice, and had to fight to maintain a straight face; it would not do to smile like a giddy new recruit in front of such an imposing figure.

"My name is Sanson Smyth, of the Order of the Twin Adders," Sanson introduced himself, wondering if she was even familiar with the City States' Grand Companies.

"Guydelot Thildonnet, also of the Order of the Twin Adders, although somewhat reluctantly," Guydelot said. "I am, first and foremost, a Bard."

Vidofnir turned an appraising eye to him and Guydelot, gaze lingering on the lance at Sanson's back. He had never been sized up by a dragon before; he wasn't quite sure he would ever want to repeat the experience. He tried not to shrink back from her intense gaze, and after what seemed like an age, she dipped her head in acknowledgement and turned her attention to Guydelot. After a moment she appeared to be seemingly satisfied, and nodded at him as well before turning her attention back to the Warrior of Light.

 _That much I can see,_ she replied to him, and then addressed all three of them. _What is it that brings you above the clouds?_

The Warrior explained to her their quest. She remained silent, staring down at them, until the Warrior had finished, and then she huffed out a gentle laugh.

 _Would that I had postponed my departure until you began your ascent,_ she said somewhat ruefully. _Mayhaps I could have saved you some time and peril. May I see your map?_

The Warrior pulled it out of his bag and unfurled it for her. Vidofnir examined it for a short moment before snorting out another laugh. _I did not think I would ever see it_ , she said

"You recognize it?" Sanson asked, taken aback, and he could not help the small bubble of excitement that was fizzling quietly in his breast. The great dragon turned her attention to him once more, and Sanson was relieved that her expression held none of the scrutiny from before.

_Aye, though I have never laid eyes upon it before this day. May I share with you all a story my broodfather once told me?_

The Warrior said "by all means," as Guydelot said "oh, _please_." Sanson had to choke out an affirmative through his amusement at his companions' eagerness.

Vidofnir settled into a more comfortable position before she began her tale.

_Before the Dragonsong War, during the fleeting peace between Dravanian and Man, there lived three bards. Reclusive and mysterious, our forefathers sought them out in their homes, and were surprised to find all three engaged in merriment in their small abode. One of my kin, Bragi, befriended the bards, and theirs was a friendship filled with joyful music._

_Alas, one of the bards fell ill, and passed away shortly thereafter. The hearts of the remaining two never mended, and Bragi, overcome with grief, consumed the body of his fallen comrade. Enraged, the remaining bards cast him from their presence and bade him never speak to them again._

_Years passed. The bards remained reclusive as ever, yet as the end of their natural lifespans drew near, Bragi felt compelled to reconcile with his dear friends. But when he came upon their home, they were already dead._

_Bereft, Bragi used his life force to shield their home from outside eyes. Though he ceased to exist, his spirit would protect those he held most dear, and the music they had made together._

At some point during Vidofnir's story Sanson had begun holding his breath; he released it in a rush and felt Guydelot's fingers loosen on his arm. He didn't know when the other man had grabbed onto him, he'd been so captured by the tale.

"Thank you for sharing that with us," Sanson said. Vidofnir regarded him with something akin to - was it approval?

 _It was my pleasure_ , she responded. _Whether they still remain I cannot say, and where they may be I do not know._

"That's quite alright," Guydelot said. "We can bungle our way through it from here."

Vidofnir snorted again. _There is one last thing. The map you carry was made in centuries past, but it is not so old as the Dragonsong War. I have recounted this tale to mankind once before: to a scholar in the lands now occupied by scavengers._

"Thank you," the Warrior said, a rare smile curving his lips.

Vidofnir regarded them all once more, and her easy, gentle demeanour was replaced by steel in her gaze and tension in her posture. Sanson could imagine the fierceness with which she fought, and hoped to never see it in person. _I tell you this because I trust you, Warrior of Light, and your companions. Do not betray my trust. Until next we meet_ , she said, and then took flight. Her great wings buffeted their surroundings and tangled Sanson's loose hair into a hopeless rat's nest. He did not care. This was the most definitive lead they had yet, and he could feel the excitement of the adventure burning within him again.

"How did you know she would have the answer?" Guydelot demanded, turning on the Warrior of Light. He laughed.

"I didn't. I _hoped_ she might, since she's one of Hraesvelgr's children, and short of bothering him - which you don't want to do - she's the next best thing," he explained. "And quite a bit more accommodating, besides."

"Shall we be on our way, then?" Sanson suggested. He was eager to be out of the wind and the cold, to be making progress, but then the Warrior of Light frowned, bringing a hand to his ear, and excused himself to speak privately.

Sanson knew that the most use the Warrior of Light's linkpearl got was when the Scions of the Seventh Dawn needed his help - whether to save a country or save the world, Sanson couldn't say yet, but the burgeoning excitement he had felt for their continued adventure was fizzling out, heavy in his stomach. He leaned against the nearest rock face and crossed his arms, and then uncrossed them after feeling something in his pocket that shouldn't have been there.

"I have something for you," he said without preamble, and pulled Guydelot's journal out of his pocket before he could lose his nerve. He'd forgotten that he still had it, had meant to return it to Guydelot once they had found him, but the dire state of his friend and the surreal events afterwards had driven anything else from his mind.

"My journal," Guydelot said, surprised. "It wasn't in my bag when I was looking for the sparklers. I thought I'd lost it for good."

"We found it while we were looking for you. In that nest," Sanson explained. "Here." He held out the journal, and Guydelot's expression shifted into something more serious. "I - I read it, and I'm sorry. I know I shouldn't have, but it was all we had to go on that might have helped us find you."

Guydelot plucked the journal gingerly from Sanson's hands. He flipped it over, grimacing at the damage it had sustained. "It's alright," he said. "I can't imagine there was anything useful in there, however. Just the ramblings of a fool."

"Perhaps," said Sanson. "You were very angry at your gloves, from what I recall."

"Ah, yes, those fickle little things," Guydelot murmured. He examined his bare hands. "Protecting my hands from fletchings in one moment, plunging me to my certain doom the next."

"And you said - well, I suppose you _wrote_ \- that you wanted to tell me something," Sanson continued, anxiety swelling in his breast uncomfortably. He was almost certain he was being very rude.

"I did," Guydelot conceded.

"What was it?" Sanson asked.

Guydelot's lips quirked into a small smile. "That's a secret."

"I see." It was foolish to have expected a straight answer, he realized. Guydelot, amicable as he may be, had always been cagey about himself. Still, it was hard to ignore the disappointment.

"Oh, don't look at me like that. I'll tell you what," Guydelot said, and he pushed the journal back into Sanson's hands. "You hold on to this for now. Give it to me when we get home, and I'll tell you then."

Sanson pocketed the journal again. "I'll hold you to that," he threatened, and Guydelot's lips quirked upwards into a rakish grin.

"I can only hope so," he said, and before Sanson could demand what he meant by that the Warrior of light returned, expression grim.

"What's wrong?" Guydelot asked.

"I've been called back to The Rising Stones," the Warrior said. "It's - well, it's not good."

Sanson grimaced. He had limited knowledge on what exactly the Warrior and Scions were dealing with now that Ala Mhigo had been reclaimed, but the news the Warrior did share with them was hardly ever of a positive nature. He wasn't surprised that his hunch had been right, but he was disappointed.

"You two go on without me," the Warrior said, and both Sanson and Guydelot made noises of protest at that.

"You can't expect us to finish this without you," Guydelot argued. "If this place really has been sitting there for a thousand years, it can stand to wait a little longer."

"It might be a while before I'm back," the Warrior argued back, and there was a waver to his voice that Sanson had never heard before. "I trust you two to finish the job, and I want to hear all about it once we're all home again." He left no room for further argument, and they spent the next bell or so rearranging their bags so that Sanson and Guydelot had all the supplies they needed without being overburdened, as the Warrior's chocobo stubbornly refused to be commanded by anyone else.

"Be careful," Sanson urged, once they were ready to part ways. Guydelot repeated the sentiment, though he did not look pleased to be leaving their friend behind.

"You as well," the Warrior returned, and then he was gone.

"I wonder how deep his purse goes," Guydelot mused quietly. Sanson suspected he was filling the silence for the sake of it, but did not contest him. "Imagine being able to use the Aetheryte to your will. I wouldn't walk anywhere."

"You'd be fatter than a stuffed pig," Sanson said, eliciting a nervous laugh from the other man. They had never done this - adventuring together towards something so big and unknown without their reliable companion. "What say you we get down this mountain and then plan our next course of action?"

* * *

Descending through Sohm Al was always easier than climbing it, and they were lucky to only need to dispatch a small group of aggressive vultures near the base. They set up camp - one tent, since it would be next to impossible to carry a second one with the rest of their gear - in the courtyard surrounding Anyx Trine's tower, and spent the evening poring over their map of the Dravanian Hinterlands and the map for the dirge. The Warrior of Light had taken the time to mark down where the roads and bridges connected (as well as circling a large part of the river and writing ALEXANDER in the centre of it); wherever they had a mind to go, it was going to be a roundabout route, and they would probably get their feet wet.

"I wonder," Sanson said, pointing to a line in the stanza of their poem-map, "it says here: ' _In land long sundered by Thaliak's grace_ '...could it possibly lie near the river?" It could mean the Hinterlands as a whole, except the missing 's' at the end of 'land' was bugging him. "And Vidofnir mentioned she told her tale to someone else, which I think we can both agree was probably one of the Sharlayan scholars. Do you think they might have records of anything about it in the library?" He tapped the map where the Warrior had written GUBAL.

"Could be," Guydelot agreed. "It's worth a try, and a damned sight better than wandering around the region until the goblins try to blow us up."

"We should stop at Idyllshire first and see if anyone there knows anything," Sanson suggested. He wouldn't mind taking a look around the city, if time permitted. "Since we'll be passing by anyway."

"You know, it's been a while since I've seen you so excited over something," Guydelot said, bringing Sanson's whirling thoughts to a stuttering halt. "It used to annoy me, how earnest you were, but I like it now."

"Excuse me?" Sanson sputtered, grateful that the low lamplight hid his burning face at the unexpected compliment.

Guydelot tilted his head at his apparent misstep. "I didn't mean to offend you."

"I'm not offended." There were plenty of things about Guydelot that used to make him pull his hair out in frustration; it would be foolish not to expect the same in return, given the rocky start to their friendship.

"Then I'm glad you're enjoying this as much as I am," Guydelot said, murmured really, and Sanson was too aware of how small this tent was, meant for one occupant and their belongings, and Guydelot's crooked smile, honest and unguarded in the dim glow of the lamplight.

"I've been meaning to say," Sanson started, and wished Guydelot would stop looking at him like that; it was making it hard to think. "We should talk about what we're going to do if we find the dirge."

Guydelot's face fell. "Oh. Yes, that."

"Assuming it is actually a piece of music, and assuming that it does actually grant people immortality, and _also_ assuming we ever find it, I think we should destroy it," Sanson said, knowing he was letting his friend down and wishing this were easier. "I know Vidofnir told us not to betray her trust, and if there was any way I could keep that promise I would, but I can't in good conscience allow something like that to be exploited."

"You know, I agree with you," Guydelot responded, words measured, shocking Sanson. "I've been thinking about it since we left Gridania, actually. Immortality could be nice, I suppose, but not if someone like, say, Emperor Varis took advantage of it." He shuddered in revulsion. "Imagine."

Sanson could imagine it, and that was exactly why he was of the mind the piece of music shouldn't exist. But -

"I don't understand," he said. "If you agree with me, then why are you so determined to find it? Why not leave well enough alone?"

Guydelot shrugged, non-committal. "The call of adventure, the thrill of discovery, maybe even because I just like spending time with you. Who knows. You're out here trying just as hard as I am, though, so I think you know the answer to your questions."

Put that way, Sanson supposed he did, and he was embarrassed to acknowledge how simple it really was.

He was tired of being holed up in his office all day, writing out training regimens for the recruits who had no interest in being part of the Twin Adders, or the recruits who joined simply because it seemed like it was the right thing to do, or even for those recruits spurred only by the highest of emotions all of Eorzea felt when news spread of Ala Mhigo's reclamation. Once the elation faded most of them resigned.

He wanted to be here, with Guydelot in a cramped tent on the cold flagstones of a crumbling settlement, poring over maps and documents until his eyesight blurred and the oil in his lamp ran low. He wanted to share his inspirations with others, wanted to help them understand how he felt when he looked upon something new or old or dear and the wonderment and awe manifested itself in his song.

He wanted so much more than what he had, and he was selfish for wanting it, ashamed of wanting it, but it gnawed at him like a hunger, inescapable and aching.

Judging by Guydelot's expression, he understood all too well.

* * *

Sanson had never been to the Dravanian Hinterlands. He knew its history in an academic sense, and he knew it was currently occupied mostly by goblins with only one or two real settlements to speak of, but that knowledge alone didn't do much for one's imagination.

He was entirely unprepared for what must be Alexander, looming enormously over the Thaliak River. Guydelot stopped and whistled at the sight, pulled out his journal (the fact that he carried at least two on him at all times did something funny to Sanson's chest), and wrote for a brief few minutes before they continued on their way. The ruins of the Sharlayan colony were fascinating, and Sanson would love to explore them more in-depth one day, but if they wished to arrive at Idyllshire before it was too late to continue they couldn't afford any rests longer than to take their meals. He had it on the Warrior's word that Idyllshire had a lovely little inn with indoor plumbing and he was aching for a bath and a bed.

The Warrior of Light had warned them about the Illuminati, however the group gave them no trouble. Sanson suspected that after they lost control of Alexander, and with no leader to give them purpose, they had spent the intervening time simply trying to survive. After a long day of walking they arrived at Idyllshire without incident and Sanson made a beeline for the Aetheryte, Guydelot on his heels.

Attunement done with, they began looking for lodgings. Asking a friendly-looking goblin yielded the answer, "Pshkohhhh, behind the Bangpots gobbiekiln," and so after some searching they located the building and secured a room for the night.

"Beds," Guydelot said with relish, and without further ado flopped down face-first onto the one nearest the door.

"I thought you were converted to cloud mallow," Sanson observed, and Guydelot turned his head just enough to shoot him a mock glare while he deposited his belongings at the foot of the other bed.

"Beggars can't be choosers," he recited, but the effect was ruined by how the words were muffled in the bedspread.

Sanson was more looking forward to the indoor bathing facilities than the beds. He hadn't had a chance to properly bathe since Castellum Velodyna, and he was eager to scrub the accumulated filth from his person. They were lucky that Idyllshire seemed to operate on a twenty-four hour basis; Sanson didn't think he could stand his own stench much longer.

Leaving Guydelot to the mattress, he made his way to the public bath and let himself focus on cleaning himself up rather than think about what lay ahead of them. At some point Guydelot joined him; they engaged in idle chatter until Sanson was satisfied he hadn't a trace of dirt left on him.

He slept soundly that night, and when he woke at daybreak the next morning he felt refreshed for the first time since this adventure began. He packed his things quietly until Guydelot woke with a snort. If they dedicated only half the morning to asking the locals about the library they would, theoretically, arrive at the library by dusk. He wondered at the odds of anyone knowing where they might possibly find the writings of an anonymous scholar who died some hundred years ago.

Once Guydelot had finished waking up and preparing himself for the day, they split up so as to cover more ground. Guydelot went south while Sanson went west, and they planned to reconvene in the garden named The Snail no later than half bell nine.

Sanson's route took him through a curious yet prosperous tiered garden system where none of the botanists had any clue what he was talking about, past a workshop of sorts that he was barred entry to, into a restaurant whose staff and patrons were entirely unhelpful, and finally to a woman named Midnight Dew who had an air of authority around her that Sanson felt was his last hope. She listened to his case with a hand on her hip, and then asked, "How's it you know our mutual friend?"

So Sanson explained to her their history, careful to omit just what they suspect the Dirge of Eternity was capable of, and her wary expression gradually gave way to something more open and friendly until she was laughing alongside him at his recounting of the All Saints' Wake celebration where the Warrior had gotten too deep into his cups and began improvising a festive song that was so powerful it had everybody within thirty yalms of him screaming in terror.

"Aye, I don't doubt you really do know him," she wheezed, wiping a tear from her eye. "Shame he had to leave on business before you made it this far, I wouldn't mind shootin' the breeze with him again." She told Sanson of her expansive involvement with the Warrior of Light, and Sanson was not at all surprised to hear tell what he had been up to in his spare time, though he could have been spared the details of what Midnight Dew described as a "towering pile of gobbie shite."

"We don't even get creatures like that in the Twelveswood, and most of the forest floor is composed composted of dung," Sanson said, repulsed, and Midnight Dew barked out a guffaw that rang off the stone buildings.

"I never thought I'd see the day where you're late for an appointment," Guydelot said, sidling up beside him. Sanson cursed, and checked his pocket watch. It was, indeed, nearly fifteen minutes past their agreed-upon time. "I see you've found yourself some exceptionally lovely company."

There was a tense moment where Sanson recognized Guydelot as sizing Midnight Dew up, and where Midnight Dew returned the favour, before she grinned in a rather wicked manner.

"You're barkin' up the wrong tree, lad," she drawled, and burst out laughing once again at Guydelot's affronted expression.

"That's not - I - "

Well. There was a sight he never thought he'd see: Guydelot Thildonnet, rendered speechless by a pretty face.

Midnight Dew wiped a merry tear from her eye, waving Guydelot's protests away. "You must be the other one he's told me about," she said, jerking her head towards Sanson.

After Sanson made proper introductions between the two, Midnight Dew said, "If what you've told me regardin' your fightin' experience is true - and I've an inkling it is - there'll be naught for you to worry about up at Gubal. The place has been unlocked since the war with the dravanians ended, but we try to warn off any looters as a matter of course. As for that scholar you're lookin' for, I'm afraid I can't help you there. Could be there's something in the history section if he wrote about dravanians."

"Thank you," Sanson said, committing her suggestion to his memory. "It's been a pleasure meeting you, but if we're to reach the library before nightfall we must needs depart immediately."

Midnight Dew's eyebrows shot up under her fringe. "Nightfall? Surely you aren't travellin' on foot?" At their drawn expressions she shook her head. "That won't do at all. Come along with me to the bridge; I'm sure we can procure a chocobo or two."

"Thank you," Sanson said again with feeling, moved by her unexpected kindness. "You've been a great help. If there's anything we can do to repay you - "

Midnight Dew waved that off. "Just bring the birds back when you're done and we'll call it even."

* * *

Travel was much faster astride a chocobo. Midnight Dew had managed secure one mount sized for a Roegadyn rider for the both of them, and the chocobo, she had informed them, had not been trained for flying yet. Sanson thought that was sensible, even with the bird's larger size; in retrospect his frantic search with the Warrior of Light with the both of them atop his chocobo had been extremely foolhardy and dangerous, even if he would repeat his actions again in a heartbeat and with no regrets. He just wouldn't think of what would have happened had he slipped off the back end.

It was easy to settle back against Guydelot, take out his journal, and allow the other man to steer the bird through the deteriorating streets of the abandoned colony while he jotted down ideas. One thing he wrote down with a shaky hand - riding a chocobo was never a smooth process - was a reminder to fill out the form requesting a personal chocobo once they were home. He had learned his lesson on this account, at least, and his blistered feet would thank him for it.

The chocobo was fast, powerfully so, and Sanson's pocket watch showed it was barely two bells past noon when they arrived at the imposing structure that could only have been the Great Gubal Library.

"It looks as though it's simply slipping out from the cliff face," Sanson noticed, marvelling at the architecture.

"I wonder how they did that," Guydelot mused, and then dismounted. Sanson followed suite.

They didn't tether the chocobo. According to Midnight Dew the bird, like those of the Twin Adder, would find a nice place to graze away from predators until they blew her summoning whistle. If push came to shove, Sanson had seen the size of the talons she wielded and was fairly certain she could hold her own in a scrap.

The interior of the library was dark, musty, and covered with dust. Sanson had been expecting the place to be crawling with fiends, and was relieved that they made their way through the halls unbothered. Their goal was the Natural History Room, which Midnight Dew had assured them was near the back end of the library but before things started getting round again. They found the round hall that meant they had gone too far and doubled back to the previous, squarer room.

A tome on the desk read 'The Boy and the Dragon Gay', so Sanson suspected they had found the correct room to start their search, and he told Guydelot as much. What followed was a few tedious bells of sorting through tomes that proved unuseful to their goal. As they continued without success Sanson was beginning to resign himself to the idea of more than one day of this task, until a jubillant shout from across the room caught his attention.

"I've found him! Listen to this: 'I met again with the Dravanian, unsure of her intent. Her kind have ever been full of loathing for mankind, and yet her appetite appeared to be not for my flesh but for my knowledge. I shared with her our history as she shared with me theirs, and I have learned of a most curious phenomenon.' He prattles on like that for a bit before _mentioning Bragi by name_."

Sanson crossed the room before Guydelot could draw breath to continue. The tome in Guydelot's hands appeared to be a collection of sorts, R. Plamondon one of many authors compiled within. Sanson followed the text with his eyes as Guydelot read aloud, reciting Plamondon's entries, set in a journal-styled format, wherein he outlined attempts to locate the hidden area using aetherometres and other such instruments to search for fluctuations or oddities. He had narrowed the possibilities down to but a few locations - one set of coordinates was so close to the library that Sanson felt a thrum of anticipation in his breast - before the text unceremoniously ended and Sanson was left wanting for more. An editor's note underneath declared Plamondon's passing before his research could be completed, with no apprentices to pass it on to. It also mentioned that the last page of the Plamondon's manuscript was never recovered. Nowhere in the text was the Dirge of Eternity - or any piece of music, for that matter - mentioned. And so this text had fallen into obscurity, tucked between essays and tomes and walls meant to hide it away once the library had been sealed.

Guydelot slipped the tome into his bag once they had finished reading. Satisfied that they were on the right track, they retraced their steps back through the library until they were blinking into the late afternoon sunlight.

The obvious thing to do was to investigate the set of coordinates closer to them, however that lead them down the treacherous sloping cliffside and progress was slow. They were wary of the chocobo that had been lent to them; if Sanson somehow managed to turn the bird's foot or break her leg he would never be able to show his face to Midnight Dew again. They traversed the rocky outcrops on foot, leading the chocobo behind them, and After an exhausting and frustratingly slow bell they arrived on a small plateau that gave them a magnificent view of Alexander from closer than they had dared venture before. Perhaps it was the dormant Primal, or perhaps they had finally, _finally_ found the right place, for the air positively crackled with aetheric energy; the hairs at Sanson's nape stood on end and their chocobo trilled uneasily.

What surprised Sanson was the utter and complete melancholy that seemed to envelope his being. He felt it pulling at him, dragging him into the abyss. He would never be happy again, he knew with certainty. There was nothing left for him, here.

"There must be something here," Guydelot muttered, shaking Sanson from his strange reverie. Guydelot was running a hand along the sheer rock face. He either hadn't been as affected as Sanson by the strange melancholy, or he hid it much better. "I can feel it. You can feel it too, can't you? We're close, I know we - "

Sanson blinked. Guydelot had disappeared, sliding through the cliffside as easily as if it were air, and Sanson felt a sudden irrepressible fear that this time he had lost his friend for good. There would be no rescue, there would be no recovery. Guydelot was gone.

He screamed, a wordless, gutteral how, and barrelled headlong towards the sheer face of rock where his friend had disappered, heedless of the chocobo's distressed cry behind him. He raised a panicked fist to pound at the stone, but when his gloved hand made contact it slipped through as though the cliff were made of something malleable. The rest of him went tumbling through as well, and he was brought stumbling to his hands and knees by his momentum.

"That's a nasty little trick, isn't it?" Guydelot remarked. "I fell on my arse as well, so there's no need to be embarrassed."

Sanson didn't mention that he was embarrassed for an entirely different reason. He pulled himself to his feet and brushed himself off. "Is this it?" he asked, peering around his companion to take in what lay behind him. They were on a narrow dirt road nestled between two tall mountains to either side.

"Only one way to find out," Guydelot said. "But first, look behind you."

Sanson did, and gasped in alarm. Where Alexander should have stood lay empty air. He was mollified somewhat by the knowledge that Guydelot had not seen his loss of composure, at the least.

They followed the road abreast until it was narrowed into a single-file pathway lined with teak trees that eventually gave way to thicker spruce. Sanson had noticed as they walked the absolute stillness of the space they occupied; there was no breeze, no birdsong. It was truly as if everything had been suspended in time around them.

The trees thinned once again, and Sanson thought he spied a clearing up ahead.

"Amazing," he breathed. "If what Vidofnir said is correct, this place has remained virtually untouched for nigh on one thousand years."

In the clearing Sanson could barely make out what appeared to be a cottage. As they made their way through the trees, several paths branched off from their own, each lined with bushes of white roses. They had been cultivated in such a way that the flowers had begun to climb around the foliage surrounding them, and the carefree lilt of the vines where they curved around the branches of the trees set a lump in Sanson's throat. They were ethereally beautiful; he couldn't wrap his mind around the thought that they had survived all these years untouched.

"They put such care into the landscaping; lucky for us it's been preserved," Guydelot remarked. It was a weak attempt at humour that belied his nerves.

As they approached the cottage Sanson couldn't shake the sense that they should make an about face and go back the way they came. He perservered through the unsettling feeling; he was not going to let Guydelot down, and he was not going to let this dirge be discovered by anyone else who might have more unsavoury ideas for it.

Flowers lined the garden plots outside of the cottage; Sanson could identify a few of them as natives of the Twelveswood, but the remaining blooms remained a mystery to him. Around the side of the small building was a larger garden plot, this one in full bloom with produce from around all of Eorzea. Sanson didn't know how someone had managed to grow emerald beans at such a low altitude, and he suspected he never would.

The inside of the cottage was as quiet and still as the exterior. Sanson and Guydelot carefully searched the front room, which acted as a kitchen and dining room all in one, mindful not to disturb anything they didn't need to and dutifully returning everything to its proper place. With the exception of the dirge, if it existed, Sanson wanted to leave everything exactly the way it had been before they arrived.

Coming up empty-handed in their search of the kitchen-slash-dining-room, they moved to one of the corner rooms, which was a bedroom that, to Sanson's horror, was occupied.

Its inhabitant was not alive - couldn't be, Sanson reminded himself, and yet the man lay in the bed as though he'd laid down for sleep the prior night and simply forgotten to wake up again.

"Sanson," Guydelot said quietly, as though afraid he might wake the man. He was frozen in the doorway. "I don't like this. How long has he been there?"

"I don't know," Sanson answered, just as quiet. "Vidofnir did say this place has been hidden from human eyes since before the Dragonsong War, but..."

"A thousand years?" Guydelot asked, incredulous. "How could the magic holding this place stationary in time have held for that long?"

Sanson shrugged. "Dragons," he muttered, as though that explained anything. He had his suspicions, was in fact quite sure that this man was one of the bards Vidofnir had spoken of, but he didn't want to discuss that here, in front of him.

"Are we supposed to go looking through his things in front of him?" Guydelot asked, distaste apparent in his tone.

"No," Sanson decided. "Let's leave this room alone."

There was nothing of note in the other bedroom. It was similarly furnished, and similarly untouched.

The last room in the cottage appeared to be a personal study of sorts. Bookshelves lined the walls and a small writing desk sat underneath the sole window. While Guydelot got to work inspecting the myriad books, Sanson began examining the desk. The surface was tidy; whoever had worked here last had made sure to clean up their belongings. He opened one of the top drawers, and let out a surprised exclamation. Guydelot was by his side not a second later.

Inside the drawer laid several sheets of music. Guydelot plucked them from their resting place. "'Four Serious Songs'?" he said upon reading the title, eyebrow raised in skepticism. "That seems rather simple."

"I'm sure most tavern bards would agree, what with their wonderfully descriptive titles about full-chested women and well-endowed men," Sanson said. Guydelot rolled his eyes. "Is the composer's name anywhere on the score?"

Guydelot scanned the sheets, then shook his head. "Only a dedication, it seems. Look."

He thrust the pages towards Sanson. Under the title and opus number was a simply scrawled inscription.

_To Clara._

"That doesn't help us much, does it?" Guydelot said. "Odd, there's only three pieces here. I wonder where the last one went."

"He loved her," Sanson murmured. "This poetry is...it's beautiful, but it's very sad. I think she was dying. I think - " he read a few lines of the next page. "I think they were both dying."

"Let me see," Guydelot said, and Sanson handed the pages back to him. As he read, Guydelot's expression shifted from skeptical, to curious, to somber. "You're right," was all he said once he had finished, and then he drew his lyre from its case.

"What are you doing?" Sanson asked as Guydelot quickly tuned his instrument.

In lieu of answer, Guydelot began to play. Sanson recognized the piece immediately as the first of the Four Serious Songs. It sounded lovely - far lovelier than what he'd imagined as he'd read the music. And then Guydelot began to sing.

He sang the words the unnamed composer had penned for his ailing love, his voice carrying a haunting, sorrowful quality through the stanzas. When at last he lowered his lyre, Sanson was surprised to see a brightness to his eyes that had not been there before.

"Are you going to play the others?" he asked, and flinched as Guydelot raised a hand to his cheek.

"No," Guydelot said, and when he drew his hand back the tip of his thumb shone with wetness. Sanson brought his own hands to his face and was shocked to find that he'd begun to cry during Guydelot's performance. "Sorry."

Whether he was sorry to have brought about that reaction in Sanson or for not completing the set of songs, he did not say, and Sanson dared not ask.

* * *

They decided to take their meal outside. No words were exchanged, but Sanson knew that Guydelot would rather avoid eating inside the cottage as much as he. Oddly, the sky never seemed to changed here. Sanson was quite sure that the sun had been close to setting when they stumbled into this queer realm and yet the sky above them was pale blue and cloudless as though it were only midmorning. It remained so as they settled down somewhat uneasily to eat (rations; Sanson didn't feel comfortable making a fire from the woods or taking any of the produce from the garden), and when Sanson tried to locate the sun he was dismayed by its complete absence when their shadows indicated it should be right overhead.

Sanson wanted to continue the search, but the unending blue sky betrayed the late hour. He knew it was nearly midnight, even if his watch had stopped working as soon as he'd walked through the barrier.

"We should rest a bit," he suggested wearily, and Guydelot nodded reluctantly. There was no point in setting up a tent - there was no foul weather nor foul beasts to protect against, after all. Sanson unrolled his bedroll near the edge of the cottage clearing, as far from the building as he could.

He slept fitfully for a few hours before waking in a cold sweat, the dead man's pallid face fresh on his mind, and, knowing it would be next to impossible to sleep again after that, he got up. There was no point waiting around; the faster they found the dirge and left, the better.

Sanson considered waking Guydelot, but ultimately decided against it. The other man's face had taken on a drawn and haggard pallor since they had arrived, and he would much rather his friend get more rest if it would help his obviously frayed nerves. He'd had an idea, besides, and wanted to explore it before dragging Guydelot around the woods.

If what Vidofnir had said was correct, and if what Sanson had gleaned from the first movement of the Four Serious Songs held water, the other bard - not the one who had been eaten - had perished here, some time before the man in the cottage. She - Clara - had not been inside, and barring cremation (Sanson did not see anything that indicated such a kiln existed here) there was only one place he thought she might be.

He just had to find it.

Sanson wandered through the woods, making mental notes of the paths he traversed, and which ones intersected, and where. Next to the Twelveswood mapping out this small forest was easy, and it wasn't long before there was only one path left to check. Sanson hoped it would not be a dead end; he had no other ideas as to where the dirge might be.

"Sanson Smyth, _what in the seven hells are you doing_?" Guydelot demanded, voice shrill in the quiet. Sanson nearly jumped out of his skin, not expecting any noise - let alone Guydelot shouting at the top of his lungs - to disturb him. He turned on his heel and regarded his companion, doubled over to catch his breath.

"I'm looking for Clara," Sanson explained. "The composer wrote the Four Serious Songs songs for her. If we can find where she's been buried, we might finally find the answer to this Dirge business."

"Alone?" Guydelot snapped, straightening up to his full height. "What if something had happened to you? I had no idea where you'd gone or when you'd left. For all I knew, you'd left me here and slipped right off the edge of a cliff outside. The Warrior is malms away in Mor Dhona or gods know where else, and I don't have a _sodding chocobo_ to find out where it is you've gone and hurt yourself at, because we left her outside!"

Sanson's cheeks prickled hotly as his spine stiffened. "I don't need your constant supervision to ensure I don't - go tumbling into a rosebush at the slightest misstep," he bit out coolly, gesturing sharply to one of the plants that lined the path. "Ever since that business with Nourval you've been absolutely suffocating. I'm not some - some _child_ who needs to have his hand held while relieving himself!"

Guydelot's nostrils flared. He stalked up to Sanson. "All I ask is that you leave a _note_ the next time you decide to go gallivanting off into the wilderness of some strange suspended time bubble!" he hissed. "We don't know the first thing about this place. We don't know how it _works_."

"I can look after myself," Sanson said, crossing his arms. He turned away from Guydelot, if only to escape his glare. "You needn't worry yourself over me."

"But I do!" Guydelot nearly shouted, causing Sanson to whip back around to face him. "I know you can very well look out for yourself. Gods, I've seen the way you handle your lance and I'd be terrified to be on the other end of it. I don't know _why_ I worry so godsdamned much over you, but I do, and I hate it as much as you do, believe me. But when I woke and you were gone, I could only think that you'd ended up like that man - lying dead somewhere in the woods and looking as though you were just sleeping and - gods, Sanson, it felt awful."

"I'm sorry," Sanson said, taken aback. He hadn't considered - gods, why hadn't he thought about that? How would he have reacted if he'd woken alone here? Not much different from Guydelot, he imagined.

"Don't apologize," Guydelot said, running a hand through his hair. "I'm the one being ridiculous. I think this place is doing something to me, and I don't like it. The longer we stay here the worse I feel."

"It's effecting me as well," Sanson admitted, relieved he wasn't the only one beginning to crack under the oppressive atmosphere. "I'm sorry for shouting at you; I'm not really of the mind you think I'm some incompetent child and I don't think you're suffocating, most of the time at least. I was just frustrated. Let's - finish what he came here for and leave."

They walked in silence until the trees opened up into a dainty meadow. Two graves lay, side by side, near the treeline opposite them.

The grave in which Clara lay was a simple affair. The headstone was a small, polished stone. Inscribed upon it was her name, the year of her birth, and the year of her death. Indeed, she had passed away some thousand years ago. A white rose, perhaps plucked from one of the bushes along the path, lay before the headstone. Beneath it rested another score. Beside Clara's grave was a second stone, upon which they learned the name of her husband: Robert. He had died many years before her, and Sanson knew the plot to be empty. Atop it lay another piece of music pinned beneath a white rose; this piece, from what Sanson could scry without disturbing the pages, was not part of any particular set, but it was dedicated to Bragi much in the same way the Four Serious Songs were dedicated to Clara. The melody, when he read it, was beautiful. The words were unimagineably sad, full of loss and grief and yearning. He didn't read much further than that.

Guydelot was peering down at Clara's grave, expression unreadable. "It's the last piece of the set," he said, voice sounding oddly strangled. "We should go. This isn't - creeping around their home, going through their things, it feels wrong."

"It does feel wrong, but we didn't know," Sanson said, placing what he hope was a comforting hand upon Guydelot's arm. The other man looked over to him, conflicted.

"I know, but it's just - it still feels as though we've done something horrible. We should have left as soon as we found that man in his room."

"I know. Let's go," Sanson suggested. He agreed wholeheartedly with Guydelot. What they'd done felt like a breach of trust. To who, Sanson wasn't sure. Perhaps it was to the bards of eld. Perhaps it was to the dravanian who gave his being to see this place remain safe. Perhaps it was to Vidofnir, or perhaps it was to himself, and to Guydelot. He didn't know.

"That music won't make anyone immortal. I don't know how, but the story got twisted somewhere, someone must have mixed up this sodding place with that sodding piece and I - I don't want to take the music with us," Guydelot said stiffly. He'd begun to make his way back down the path to the cottage. Sanson followed him.

"Nor do I," Sanson agreed. "I'd rather we scrubbed this entire place from our memories, if I'm being honest. It feels as though we've intruded on something private." It was private. It was deeply private, and he and Guydelot had come tromping in here like common thieves or bandits. He remembered the warning Vidofnir had given them and he was ashamed of himself.

"We'll tell everyone that our lead ended up being a dead end, and we'll ask the Warrior not to mention Vidofnir's story to anyone," Guydelot was saying ahead of him, running a hand through his hair in agitation. "I'll be damned if anyone else comes here. Imagine what they would do, Sanson. They would tear everything apart. And for what? A song someone wrote for his - his - "

"Guydelot," Sanson said sharply, and the other man turned to him, face contorted in anguish.

Unable to bear seeing his friend in such distress, Sanson reached out to him and Guydelot, gleaning his meaning even as his he broke down into tears, stepped into his embrace.

"I know I'm not tall enough to do this properly, but I hope this will suffice," Sanson said after Guydelot's fingers had stopped gripping the back of his jacket quite so tightly.

Guydelot chuckled wetly into his hair. "'I hope this will suffice.' You're utter shite at comforting others, you know that?"

Sanson pulled back, a hurt retort on his lips, but Guydelot, face streaked with tears and lips still quivering, was gazing down at him with such fondness he realized the other man had meant it in jest.

"Thank you," Guydelot said, stepping back and wiping at his eyes. "I think I've calmed down now. Let's quit this place."

They retraced their path through the woods, skirted along the edge of the clearing with the cottage to the thinner copse of trees that signified the exit, and carefully maintained the proper route that would lead them out of this surreal ordeal. The trees finally gave way and the path widened into the cliff-lined road, and once Sanson was fairly sure they were near the edge of the domain - he could see where Alexander should be but wasn't in the distance - he slowed his pace, keeping a tentative hand outstretched for that familiar aetherial buzz.

The next thing he knew, he was standing in a vast, endless plain of nothing. It was both black as pitch and blindingly bright, silent but for the deafening rushing sensation in his ears.

He had a moment of panic where he thought, with a dawning sort of dread, that he might have crossed over to the Lifestream before he remembered that he wouldn't be conscious if that were the case, but that only raised more questions than it answered.

_Vermin._

It was a deep voice, powerful and commanding, and it resonated within Sanson in such a familiar way that he knew who it must be. He was afraid to utter the name, lest he bring Bragi's fury down upon himself. The nothingness resolved into a thick, white, cloying fog, and Sanson struggled for breath.

 _Mankind is ever a plague upon this star._ _I will not allow any to leave with that which my dearest friends cherished._

"But we didn't take anything," Sanson argued against his better judgment, feeling out in front of him in case there were something hidden in the fog. His fingers grasped at nothing.

 _Did you not come here in search of something?_ the voice asked. _The intent to take that which does not belong to you is a failing of mankind. I will not see the last bastion of my friends' lives disturbed._

Sanson huffed out a frustrated sigh. "We came in search of music. The Dirge of Eternity. But we realized it's not some grandiose piece of music that will grant the audience immortality. It's a song written from one friend to another, and we have no business taking it. We just want to go home. Please, let us go."

_So that you may return with more of your kind to further desecrate our home? I think not. Mankind has never listened to the truth; you think your paltry words motivation enough to keep your brethren from seeking an immortal life themselves?_

"I wouldn't - we aren't going to tell anyone about this, much less come back," Sanson said, incensed.

_Do you expect me to believe your words?_

"Well, no," Sanson answered truthfully. "But - "

_Then you understand that I cannot allow you to leave. Our home must remain a secret._

"Please, just hear me out. My friend and I, we're bards. We understand how music can hold power, how it can move armies to tears, how beautiful and dangerous it can be. We were searching for this Dirge, but had we found anything close to resembling it we would have destroyed it."

_You, a bard? Do not make me laugh. The gift of music flows not through you._

The words stung as a slap across his face.

"Maybe not, but just because I can't play a lyre doesn't mean I'm not as much a bard as your friends - "

The air around him soured immediately; the fog darkened into suffocating smoke and Sanson was alarmed to find himself gasping for breath. The atmosphere clung to him, heavy, and it became a struggle to remain on his feet.

_Do not presume to know them. They were more than you could ever hope to be._

"I know they wanted to be left alone," Sanson choked out. "I know their hearts were broken when the first of them died, and I know your heart was broken too. That's why you - "

_**SILENCE.** _

Heedless of Bragi's warning, Sanson continued. "You couldn't bear the thought of him being gone, so you consumed him in the hopes that his soul would remain with you," he said, even as he was forced to his knees by the immense pressure. "But the other two misunderstood, and cast you out. And when you returned, they were gone too. You were alone. That's why you gave your life to protect their home; you wanted to be with them again, and this was the only way you knew how."

 _Enough._ _What have you to gain from my darkest memories?_

The air was sulfuric and hot, scorching Sanson's throat with every acidic breath he drew.

"You loved them," Sanson gasped, persisting through the heat and the smoke and the unbearable, unfathomable sadness. "And they loved you, despite what you did. We found a piece that was dedicated to you - "

_I know the piece. Full well I know it._

"They wanted you to come back," Sanson shouted, the words tearing themselves from his throat in desperation, tears streaming down his cheeks. His vision began to spot and blur; he coughed, choked, and wondered if Guydelot would ever find a way out alone, now that he was dying.

He could hear music. It was a beautiful melody, and he thought that it wouldn't be so bad to die, listening to this.

Breathing became easier. The sulfuric heat of the atmosphere slowly dissipated, and all that was left was the white, swirling fog, and Sanson's voice raspily singing the melody he'd thought had been a product of his imagination while suffocating to death.

 _I had not the chance to hear it performed_ , Bragi said, and his voice carried such sorrow that fresh tears pricked at the corners of Sanson's eyes.

"It's a beautiful piece," Sanson whispered. "I wish I could do it justice."

_You have._

For a long time there was only silence.

_The gift manifests itself within you differently. I can see that now._

"I - thank you," Sanson said, shocked by Bragi's deference.

 _Long has it been since I have trusted my place in men. Do not betray that trust._ _You may leave, as may your companion. Should you ever return, I trust you understand the consequences._

"Yes," Sanson said, relief bubbling throughout his chest. He laughed, a little hysterically. "Believe me, we have no intention of ever coming back here."

He thought Bragi snorted out a laugh, but he couldn't be sure. He could feel his consciousness fading, yet he felt no fear.

He came to slowly, and was at first very confused as to why he was lying down. Once he realized that he was not, in fact, lying down and that he was being cradled by Guydelot, he was then confused as to why the other man was holding his hand in such a vice-like grip.

"Sanson! Sanson Smyth! Gods, please, _please wake up..._ "

"I'm awake," Sanson mumbled, words slurring in his uncooperative mouth. "What's going on?"

The pressure on his hand disappeared, only for Guydelot to uncermoniously grab his face and plant a desperate, clumsy, painful, messy, wonderful kiss on his mouth. Just as quickly, before Sanson had a chance to kiss back or really any chance to react at all, he withdrew and pulled Sanson into a tight embrace.

"Thal's flaming _pants_ , Sanson," Guydelot choked out into his shoulder. "I thought you were gone. I thought I'd lost you."

Guydelot's hands were warm where they clung to Sanson.

"What's this about?" Sanson asked quietly. It was difficult to get the words out through Guydelot's hair, pinned against him as he was. "What happened, exactly?"

"After you touched the barrier you collapsed," Guydelot said, voice threaded with barely supressed emotion. "You were deathly still. I checked for a pulse, for breath, _anything_ , but there was nothing. I was afraid - gods, I was afraid I'd gotten you killed."

"You didn't," Sanson said, as though it were not obvious. "I'm right here." At some point he had reached up and wound his arms around Guydelot's back, and the other man finally began to relax under his touch.

"I know. Just - allow me this one lapse of composure," Guydelot breathed. "Please. Just this once."

"It doesn't have to be just this once," Sanson said, letting the suggestion hang in the air between them. Guydelot's hair was as soft as it had been at Moghome. He could run his fingers through it for hours, given the chance. "We are partners, after all."

Guydelot pulled back to fix him with an inscrutable look. Slowly, and with great deliberation, he leaned down until Sanson's vision blurred and he could only feel Guydelot's breath against his cheek. "Sanson Smyth, you drive me mad," he murmured, and then kissed him.

Guydelot's lips were rough, chapped from their many days and nights exposed to the elements. Sanson found he did not care, pulling Guydelot closer until their noses bumped and he could feel the beginnings of a chuckle rumbling throughout Guydelot's chest.

With some regret, Sanson pulled away from him. "As much as I'd like to, er, continue, this, I think we should leave this place before Bragi changes his mind."

Guydelot tilted his head inquisitively. "Bragi? The dravanian protecting this place? You _spoke_ to him?"

"I - I suppose I did," Sanson said, the weight of what had just transpired finally settling quite heavily upon his shoulders. "I can explain once we're away from here. Maybe after a few drinks."

Guydelot helped him clamber to his feet. As he reached out a hand to the iridiscent barrier a second time, Guydelot drew in a sharp breath beside him. Without sparing a thought to it, Sanson felt for his hand and took it within his own, bracing himself for a painful jolt or something of the sort to denote resistance as his fingers brushed up against the strange force. Instead, the barrier had become as strangely malleable as it had been when they had entered; he was able to push his fingers through it, and then his hand, followed by his arm and then the rest of him. Guydelot followed, hand tight around his, and once he was through as well they both sighed in relief.

Sanson turned back in time to see the air shimmer where they had exited and then become still. He could not see anything that should have been inside of the bubble; the side of the mountain remained impenetrable.

"Do you think we can reach Idyllshire by nightfall?" Sanson asked. He would have much rather have gone straight home - returning to Gridania was, blessedly, free for the both of them - but he didn't think he could manage an Aetheryte teleportation right now, and they had an obligation to let Midnight Dew know they had lost the chocobo she had lent them. The bird was nowhere in sight and refused to answer the shrill call of its summoning whistle; Sanson expected the worst. He felt poorly about it and wished he'd had the foresight to pull the bird into the cliff with him, but there was nothing he could do about it now.

Guydelot shrugged. "I have no idea what time it is, but judging by the sun I'd say we have a few bells yet before dark," he said. "So probably not, seeing as how we have half a mountain to climb down and no chocobo."

They made slow, yet steady, progress until the sun began to dip below the peaks in the distance, at which point Sanson declared there was no point continuing until morning.

"You don't want to trip and break both your legs on the way down?" Guydelot asked, but dutifully pulled their canvas tent from his bag.

"That's the last thing we need today," Sanson grumbled, but it was difficult to stay dour when Guydelot was looking at him with such affection. "Are you going to do that all the time now?"

"Do what?" Guydelot asked innocently.

"Staring. Like that."

"I've always stared at you. You just never noticed."

Turning away to hide his burning face, Sanson helped him set up the tent. He hadn't realized how much he had missed the ambiant sounds of nightfall during their sojourn into Bragi's domain. Everything inside had been perfectly still, perfectly lifeless. He much preferred this.

It was all he could do to unclasp his gear and lay out his bedroll. He fell asleep almost immediately upon lying down, and had a blessedly dreamless rest.

* * *

Sanson and Guydelot arrived back at Idyllshire the following day to much more fanfare than Sanson felt was necessary. A group of goblins amassed under the archway squeaked and shrieked and _Pshkohhhhh_ 'd upon seeing them before turning tail and running, but before Sanson could begin to be offended by this behaviour Midnight Dew stood before them, shaking her head incredulously, arms akimbo.

"We were just lobbyin' up a search party for you," she said. "Those gobbies were supposed to be my vanguard. Ol' Carmen here came runnin' back three days ago without you; I was beginnin' to fear you'd taken a tumble into the Thaliak or some such."

"Three days?!" Sanson sputtered. "How is it possible that we were gone that long?"

Guydelot muttered, "dragons," under his breath, and then began to spin a tale so close to the truth that it set Sanson's teeth on edge until it swerved into such completely different territory that he worried Midnight Dew might see the lie for what it was.

Guydelot was an expert liar, however, and without Sanson to botch this new version of events - apparently he'd been hit in the head by an Illuminati goblin with a stun grenade so powerful it left him unconscious for three days - Midnight Dew was none the wiser. It felt treachorous, lying to her after all she had done for them, but Sanson had made a promise and he intended to keep it. He'd shared some of the details with Guydelot earlier in the day, but was still trying to wrap his head around everything else. He knew Guydelot was eager to learn of what had happened while Sanson conversed with Bragi, but Sanson wasn't quite sure himself.

"They can't always end the way we want them," Midnight Dew was saying as Guydelot sighed remorsefully.

They said their farewells. Sanson was sure he would be returning at some point, so he shook Midnight Dew's hand bracingly and wished her well.

Then they were focusing on the singular point of Gridania's Aetheryte and before Sanson could count to ten he was staring out at the familiar scenery of his home. He was relieved to be back, in the way he was always relieved when returning from fieldwork; he was looking forward more to the comfort of familiarity than he was to returning to his familiar routines.

He had paperwork to fill out, and superiors to report to, but he'd decided in Idyllshire that all of that could wait until he'd had a proper night's sleep in a proper bed.

Guydelot touched his arm. "We need to get our stories straight for tomorrow." Apparently he'd also written today off as far as making an appearance at the Twin Adder was concerned.

They retired to Sanson's apartment. He wasn't actually sure where Guydelot lived and now that he thought on it he wasn't entirely convinced the man even lived within the city. Sanson took the first turn in his small shower, imagining what Guydelot's reaction might be like should he invite the other man in with him but still too unsure of this tentative new relationship between them to dare ask.

Guydelot had stayed the night more than once before, and so by the time Sanson exited the shower and donned a new set of clothes he had a steaming mug of tea ready, cradling a matching cup close to his face, expression the very picture of bliss.

"Stop that," Sanson said, only because it was distracting him from the task at hand.

"Stop what?" Guydelot asked innocently.

"That. What you're doing. Making that face at your tea, and doing it in my kitchen."

Guydelot chuckled. "Would you prefer if I made that face at you?" he said, and it really wasn't fair how his blue eyes could pin Sanson down and lay him bare for all the world to see. Carefully, as though frightened he might spook Sanson away, Guydelot put his tea down on the table without breaking eye contact, and then he was crossing the room and meeting Sanson's extended hand with his own.

Sanson wasn't sure what to do next, wasn't sure what Guydelot wanted or expected him to do, or maybe Guydelot wanted him to do what he himself wanted -

Sanson stopped thinking about it and pulled Guydelot down into a kiss that was scorching heat and tenderness all in one, and it was starting to show promise that it might lead to something else, except that Sanson had one problem.

"Ugh. I'm sorry, but you stink. Please go wash up."

Guydelot drew far enough away that Sanson could clearly see his pout. "You could have asked me to join you. I wouldn't have said no," he complained, and Sanson pushed him towards the lavatory before he was tempted.

He took advantage of the other man's absence to make a start on his report. He was fairly certain their story would remain consistent up until they encountered Vidofnir, at the very least, and so he had no qualms in penning their journey up to that point. By the time Guydelot had finished in the shower Sanson's tea was down to the dregs and he was outlining their reasoning for teleporting rather than making the journey on foot. The Twin Adder would never reimburse them now that they had returned empty-handed, but it was a matter of diligence, and Sanson was nothing if not diligent to a fault.

Guydelot appeared in the doorway, dressed in the easy and casual outfit he left at Sanson's for situations such as this.

"You know, I think I may ask to be demoted," Sanson said as casually as possible, and didn't miss the way Guydelot's eyebrows flew up beneath his fringe.

"May I ask why?" he replied, settling himself at the table beside him.

Sanson blew out a breath. Where to even begin? "Why? Why not? I've been absolutely miserable and I didn't even know it until you showed up and pulled me out of that godsdamned office. You know, I actually believed I might be able to make a differene this way, but all I've been good for is pushing paperwork around the room and making eyes at the one window I'm afforded. I can't stand it anymore. Why am I wasting my life writing up training regimens for people who quit a moon later when I could be teaching recruits who _actually_ want to make a change in the world?"

Guydelot was regarding him fondly. "They won't make it easy," he said. 'They' referred to those who had left Sanson to die and most likely promoted him afterwards just to keep an eye on him.

"I know. If they don't accept my request, I'll - resign," he said, slamming his palm down on the table with more force than was necessary. "I dare say the archers' guild will have me."

Guydelot, in the middle of a long swig of his lukewarm tea, choked.

"Only if the Twin Adder is unreasonable," Sanson was quick to clarify. He had a feeling he would be no good with a bow, anyway.

They collaborated on the report until they could swear up and down that what they spoke was the truth, and by the time they had finished the lamp oil was running low.

"Will you tell me, now?" Guydelot asked. "What happened when you touched that barrier for the first time?"

So, Sanson told him. Guydelot was an excellent audience; he gasped and hissed at all the right moments, and when Sanson explained what it was he had done to convince Bragi to release them, Guydelot kissed him, sweetly and softly and with so much affection Sanson thought he might never stop.

"See, I told you," Guydelot said, glee causing his voice to waver. "You're a bard, through and through. You've got an ancient dragon's approval; no one can discount that."

"I didn't even know I was singing, at first," Sanson argued. "And besides, no one will ever know I got the approval of a thousand-year-old dragon."

Guydelot's face fell a little. "Yes, well, beggars, choosers. But the truth of the matter is that, faced with death, you turned to song, conscious of the decision or not, and with that song, you carried the power to move someone so deeply they decided not to kill you. Or me, now that I think on it."

"I think all I really managed to do was make him sad," Sanson admitted. "I made him remember some awful things."

"Don't underestimate yourself," Guydelot chided, swatting lightly at his shoulder. "I've been telling you for ages that you're better a bard than anyone I know, present company excluded, of course. Hey!" he laughed, as Sanson rolled his eyes. "When are you going to start believing you're great?"

"I suppose...once I've actually done something that's deserving of greatness," Sanson said.

"Hmph. Well, _I_ think that what you've done today is deserving of greatness. That ought to count for something."

"It does. Thank you," Sanson said, and was surprised by the burning he felt in his eyes. "Am I allowed to get weepy now?"

"You have my permission, but only if I'm allowed to get weepy as well."

That made Sanson remember something. He patted himself down, remembered he was wearing a different set of clothing, and stood abruptly. Guydelot followed him to his bedroom, a curious tilt to his mouth.

"Can I give this back to you now?" Sanson asked, procuring Guydelot's journal from inside his discarded coat. "I'm rather curious as to what it was you wanted to tell me."

Guydelot was staring at the journal, a curiously warm expression upon his face. "You can keep it, if you'd like," he offered. "I can always get a new one. As for my secret...well, I suppose it's not much of a secret anymore. Which way would you like me to say it? That I fancy you, or that I find you troublingly attractive? What if I wrote a ballad for you instead? Or would you prefer that I just kiss you to get my point across?"

"Stop," Sanson laughed, as Guydelot did just that. They tumbled back onto the mattress, enjoying each other's warmth and presence until Guydelot pulled back just far enough to brush Sanson's fringe away from his forehead, fingers sliding down to cup his face.

"Or I could tell you that I've been desperately and maddeningly in love with you for an exceedingly agonizing amount of time," Guydelot murmured, pulling back just far enough so that Sanson could focus on his eyes. They were very blue. "That every day I think about you and it drives me _crazy_ that I can't touch you in the way I'd like. That I could write one hundred songs about the things I adore about you and they still would not measure up to seeing your smile." He sighed dramatically. "Sanson, what have you _done_ to me?"

"You can touch me in the way that you'd like," Sanson said, feeling brave, and Guydelot rolled his eyes.

" _Now_ I can, but that doesn't make for a very good narrative in a love song. Well - not the type of love song I want to write."

"What type _do_ you want to write?" Sanson asked, and after a moment Guydelot began to sing a quiet tune.

"You've already written one?" Sanson asked, awed. "I like it."

"It's a work in progress," Guydelot admitted, almost sheepishly. "But mark my words: when it's done, I'll be able to level cities with it."

Sanson's cheeks grew hot, and Guydelot's eyebrows shot up into his fringe at the sight of it.

"Of all the things I've said to you today, _that's_ what makes you blush?" he asked, incredulous. "I've pegged you wrong this entire time."

"It's just - that's very sweet," Sanson said. "Please don't destroy any cities with your songs, though. Especially not with ones about me."

Guydelot sighed. "What have you done to me?" he muttered to himself, burying his head in the crook of Sanson's neck. "Sanson Smyth, just what have you done to me?"

"I should be the one asking you that," Sanson said, and felt the heat in his cheeks intensify with renewed vigour at the smoldering look Guydelot had drawn back to give him.

"Englighten me," he asked, voice a purr, and Sanson knew he was trapped.

"For ages - _ages_ \- I've been looking at you," Sanson admitted, and now that he had begun talking the words tumbled out in a torrent. "I haven't been able to get you out of my head since our first mission together. It's been maddening, and infuriating, and absolutely hopeless. Do you know what it's like looking at some tall prick of an elezen and realizing you've fallen in love?"

Guydelot made a choking noise, something that was caught halfway between a laugh and a gasp, and Sanson, burning with embarrassment, did the only thing he could think of: he buried his face in Guydelot's chest. It probably wasn't the best idea, given that the reason he was so mortified was lying beneath him, but Guydelot simply ran his fingers through Sanson's loose hair and murmured a response to him that set the tips of his ears ablaze.

**Author's Note:**

> I know Bragi is an NPC in the Crystarium and I don't care. Two people can be named Bragi. Bragi Bragi Bragi.
> 
> [Four Serious Songs](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=knHeiIjzvYU) is a song cycle comprising of four songs, composed by Johannes Brahms. He wrote this cycle in anticipation of Clara Schumann's death, as she had suffered a stroke earlier in the year. Clara was a dear friend of his. Her husband, Robert Schumann, who was also a dear friend to Brahms, died many years before she did. It's thought that Brahms was in love with Clara, though he never acted on his feelings out of respect for Robert.
> 
> [Immer leiser wird mein Schlummer](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y1aDavzDuo4) is the piece I had in mind for the song Sanson sings to Bragi.
> 
> If I've screwed something up with continuity or use of language (lol lookin' at all those dravanians/dragons) I'm sorry, I've been staring at this thing nonstop for the past week and my brain is fried.
> 
> This is my first time writing something on this sort of scope so constructive criticism is welcomed and appreciated. :)


End file.
